To Have and to Hold
by love97
Summary: FINISHED. Some people are put into your life for a reason. The trick is learning how to keep them from slipping away. Follow Spot and Emma from early beginnings through the trials of great love, and finding out if time really does heal all wounds.
1. Pine and 4th

**A/N:** The format of this story is set up in two parts. It may be a little long, but then again, if you've read any of my stories before, you'd realize I always write long ones! It chronicles the relationship between Spot and Emma(my new FOC) over several years, and also the road to Spot's legendary status. Oh and I can't forget lots of internal conflicts, troubled young souls, and rough 'n tough street kids; all the makings of a romantic drama. For Part I, the chapters will jump dramatically in time between some of them, so keep an eye out for that. So sit back, relax, and don't forget to review!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own any _Newsies_ characters and I'm not making money off this. Damn.

**

* * *

**

**Part I, Chapter I**

**April 10, 1890**

**Brooklyn, New York**

They met in Brooklyn, at the corner of Pine and 4th, to be exact. It was an ordinary day for the both of them and ordinarily they never saw each other. Yet today, they did.

"I _cannot _keep track of you for this long," the impatient mother chided with an adamant jerk, "keep up!"

An energetic eight-year-old girl tagged along to her side as they weaved in and out of the crowds in Benham's Market. Mrs. Helen Corwell had been having trouble watching her daughter ever since she first learned to walk.

"Emma Marie Corwell!"

The fair-haired girl snapped to attention at the sound of her full name. Her big, round eyes widened and promptly she gripped her mother's hand and looked straight ahead. The sun cast a ray of light directly onto the girl's face amidst the hustle and bustle of the hectic market. She felt a burst of energy again and proceeded to skip a few steps in front of her mother, but only a few.

Not far away, a young but fierce boy went to work for the afternoon.

"_Gatherin' 'a top secret officials in Red Hook! Foul play suspected! _"

The loud, high-pitched voice echoed from the corner of Pine and 4th. Patrick waved his newspapers in the air, fifty copies of _The Brooklyn Daily Eagle_, and scanned the headlines continually.

"_Mayor to investigate Red Hook officials!"_

Sure, his headline exaggeration was a bit rusty, but it did not stop the young newsie from doing his job. As far as he was concerned, he was the biggest, bravest, most intimidating newsie in Brooklyn, even if his eight years of age and short stature worked against him at times. After a man presently purchased a paper, Patrick felt a forceful shove to his back.

"Outta heah, Patty, I'm sellin' heah now," commanded a boy no older than thirteen. He kicked over the younger boy's papers and set his own place at the corner.

"_You_ get out, Spits, this is _my_ spot!"

"Oh, yeah? Cry me a rivah, kid! Whatcha gonna do about it?" Spits turned his back to him and planted his feet firmly into the ground.

Patrick pursed his lips and furrowed his piercing, light blue eyes. This was _his_ spot. He grabbed a marble from his pocket and kicked the back of Spits' legs hard, sending him to his knees. He speedily placed the marble into his slingshot. He aimed the shot directly at his face and pulled back the rubber band, prepared to launch the marble.

"You don't got the guts, Conlon," tempted Spits.

"Try me."

On the double Spits held up his hands and got up from the ground. Gathering a torn heap of papers, he rounded the corner and left him alone. Patrick placed his slingshot back into the band of his pants and smirked.

Meanwhile, in Benham's Market, Mrs. Helen Corwell huffed and sighed almost childishly trying to gather all the groceries in her arm and still keep track of her daughter Emma.

"Your father's just _got_ to have his paper, doesn't he?" she scoffed. "Didn't buy it this morning, might as well pick one up now…not that we don't have a thousand other things to do, right, Em?"

Emma had strayed away from her mother for a moment and picked a fully blossomed daisy from the cart of a vendor who had his back turned. The girl smiled obliviously as she pressed it to her nose.

"_Emma!_"

She looked up briefly and tore off towards her mother, whose face was growing more impatient as the day wore on. They made their way towards their home and family-owned business, Corwell Bakery.

"Your _father_ is the one who usually does all the bakery shopping," complained Mrs. Corwell in a frustrated tone with her head up in the air. "'Didn't quite feel like today,' did he?" She shook her arm with her daughter attached and Emma quickly nodded, adoring and smelling her daisy the entire time.

They approached a boy, no older or younger than the girl, where Pine St. met 4th. He shouted the newspaper's headlines in a booming voice in another direction.

"Boy! I'll take one 'a those."

Emma looked up from the flower and met her evergreen eyes to the boy's blues. Immediately she looked back down and made to hide behind her mother.

"Sure thing, ma'm," he replied after hesitation.

Mrs. Corwell set down her groceries and searched for a penny. The boy held the paper to his side and glanced at Emma through the tops of his eyes. Mrs. Corwell retrieved a penny and held her hand out. After a moment, the boy came back to his senses and put the coin into his pocket. Emma smiled subtly, coming out from behind her mother and taking the flower from in front of her face. Patrick's lips spread to a small grin which he tried his best to hide.

Interrupting, Mrs. Corwell cleared her throat loudly and held out her empty hand prompting him for the paper. The boy lost his smile upon seeing Mrs. Corwell and he immediately gave her a paper.

"Sorry, ma'm."

"Let's go, dear," said her mother.

Emma and Mrs. Corwell began walking away, her mother a fair deal ahead of her. Not unexpectedly, Emma wandered from her mother's side and made her way around the boy again. He had turned already, hoping to find another buyer. She walked nervously in a square behind him, tripping over her feet and toying with the daisy.

"I think I seen you before," said Emma.

The boy turned around and looked at her. "Me?"

"Yeah. You're always right here."

"Well, that's 'cause this is my spot."

"Your spot?"

"Yeah. My spot _only_, no otha newsie can take it. I'm heah every mornin' an' aftanoon edition."

Emmae giggled. "Is that what they call ya, then? Spot?"

Patrick looked around. "I _guess_ you could say that. 'Spot' is a kinda wimpy name for a boy, though. I can't have that kinda name seein' as I gotta be tough an' all."

Emma furrowed her eyes and said defensively as though she had coined the term, "'Spot' ain't a wimpy name."

"Yeah, it _is_. What d'they call _you_?"

"Emma."

"Well, that's a wimpy name, too."

"No, it ain't!"

"You'se just a girl, though. Girls never act tough."

Upon hearing this, Emma instinctively balled up her fist and placed it on her hip. Her lips pursed, making her cheeks seem rounder, and her light eyebrows knitted together, creating a scowl.

"Or not," said Patrick in response to her reaction.

From a distance, Mrs. Corwell called for her daughter. Emma stuck her nose in the air haughtily and straightened herself up. Before marching away, she grabbed Patrick's wrist and placed the daisy in his hand.

"There ya go. Spot."

"It ain't 'Spot!'"

Patrick opened his palm and looked down at the flower. The name "Emma" resounded in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it. He shook his head and instead of throwing it to the ground, he shoved the daisy in his pocket. He committed the name "Spot" to his memory. Though he wouldn't understand this significance until later, the names would stick with him for longer than he could ever imagine.


	2. The Key

**Part I, Chapter II**

**November 27, 1895 **

**Brooklyn, New York**

"Hey Spot!"

The thirteen-year-old turned to find Bolt and Thompson, his two closest friends and newsies, running down Pine St. towards him. He exhaled and watched the cold puff of air leave his frozen lips. The winter wind whipped around him viciously and he pulled his coat around him closer. A single snowflake fell into his eyelashes and, irritated, he shook his head.

"What're ya guys doin'?" asked Spot Conlon.

"Comin' ta get you," answered Bolt, raising his shoulders to his ears. "Poker tournament goin' on right now. Spits is killin' ev'ryone. Ya gotta see it!"

Spot looked down at his stack of fifty papers to sell. That was three day's worth of food. He looked at the shivering frames and red noses of his friends. They hadn't even been out in the cold that day and they were already frozen; he couldn't imagine what he would soon look like. The word was that a snow storm was preparing to hit New York in a few short days, but he could already feel its effects.

He crammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and responded, "I'll be there when I'm done sellin'."

"Oh, come on, Conlon!" Bolt punched his arm. "Outta the whole house, _twelve _guys're sellin' today. And you'se one 'a the crazy bastards that's part 'a that twelve!"

"Yeah, it's one afternoon, Spot, ya don't gotta freeze yerself ta death just fer breakfast," added Thompson with a sniffle.

Nevertheless, Spot Conlon was going to sell every last one of those papers if he died on that street corner. He had never voluntarily eaten his money and he wasn't going to start now. He shook his head and refused to leave.

"Yer loss, man!" shouted Thompson as he and Bolt tore off down the street back to the poker tournament.

Spot turned to his papers. With a raw, pale white hand, he grabbed one and shouted, "_Blizzard headed straight fer Brooklyn!_"

* * *

Five blocks away, Corwell Bakery was busy with customers preparing for Thanksgiving the next day. Edward and Helen Corwell manned the crowded lobby, cashing in orders of breads, rolls and desserts, while a small contingent of bakers worked tirelessly in the back. Emma, the only child of the owners, sat on the narrow staircase of the shop which led up to their apartment. 

"Kelby's is closed, you'll have to go to the shop near Benham's Market," said Mr. Edward Corwell to Emma as he passed the staircase, his face flushed with stress. He handed her a list of items and money.

"What!" shrieked Emma, and then came to her senses. "Sorry. It's just so far and do you realize how cold it is out there? There's supposed to be this huge snowstorm headed over anyway. I'm not goin'."

"Helen, when'd we teach her to be so mouthy?" asked Mr. Corwell to his wife across the lobby, who simply shrugged with a face full of agreeing expression.

"Take this." Mr. Corwell handed her a key which had a long shoestring through it. "The backdoor to the kitchen doesn't open from inside, so you'll have to use this. Cooks won't hear you if knock. Whatever you do, don't lose it, 'cause I haven't made any copies yet, got it? I just got the locks changed, so be careful."

"Fine," she muttered beneath her breath with a scoff. "I'll be back later."

Emma had always been somewhat defiant. It wasn't that she was an angry child or that they had any family problems. She had always read into rules, rather than obey them; open her mouth to speak, even when it wasn't her turn; and express what was on her mind with little hesitation. In a word, Emma had always been stubborn. When it came to things that mattered, like matters of the heart or of the mind, nobody could tell her what to do, feel, or think. Looping the key loosely around her neck like a piece of jewelry, Emma buttoned up her coat and exited the bakery.

It was only after Emma had reached the sixth block that she happened upon the corner of Pine and 4th, an area she rarely visited. Spot Conlon had lessened his stack of papers to ten, and as soon as Emma rounded the corner, she ran directly into him.

"Oh! I'm sorry," apologized Emma. "You shouldn't stand so close to the turn there."

"Yeah, well, it's worked fer me fer the past five years, lady," snapped Spot, and he turned back to the opposite direction without having made any eye contact with Emma.

"Well, obviously it doesn't work anymore, _kid_, if I just ran into ya." She scoffed and continued on her way, but she couldn't understand the butterflies she felt in her stomach as she crossed the street to Flynn's, the only other baking shop her father would go to if Kelby's was closed.

A sharp breeze picked up and Spot clutched his coat closer. He couldn't remember the last time it was this cold outside. His eyes, for some reason, jumped across the street and through the window he could see Emma talking to the clerk.

Emma left Flynn's with a burlap sack filled with baking ingredients. She had to round the same corner, and knew she'd have to deal with the newsie again. As she trotted by, with the same weird feeling in her stomach, she caught a glimpse of Spot's piercing blue eyes as they connected with hers for a brief moment. The two said nothing.

Half a block later, Emma's hand flew to her chest. She stopped and dug her hand inside her coat and scarf, feeling her neck and collarbone. Nothing. She had lost the key.

Not only would her father be furious, but she'd have to trudge in through the front door and explain she would have to stay up for the whole night standing guard to make sure no one broke in. Emma's pulse sped up and her nerves raked through her body.

Moments later, she was on her hands and knees in search of the key. She crawled around most of the block until she looked up and saw Spot staring at her awkwardly. He gave her a weird look, said nothing, and simply turned his head. Emma took to her feet and marched over to the corner.

"I lost something very important," she said, looking at him directly, "so don't give me that look! If you've…"

Pausing, as if came a burst of mental clarity, she cocked her head to the side and looked up at the street sign above them. "I remember you."

Spot looked at her more deeply. His eyebrows knitted and there was a blank expression on his face. It was vague to him, very vague, but he knew he remembered this girl. She gave him a flower and gave him his name.

"This is your _spot_, right?" she joked.

Spot breathed a laugh. "Right…"

"Emma."

"Emma. I remembah you."

She smiled subtly. "Well, it was nice seeing you again. If you happen to find a key on a shoelace…"

"I will, and I'll get it back to ya."

"Right. Well, Happy Thanksgiving, then. Stay warm."

Walking away, Emma couldn't help but smile, but it soon vanished when she thought of her father. He had always kept a tight hold on the bakery with high expectations and several rules. For Emma to waltz in there and approach him at the counter, he would have to restrain his anger and save it all up to yell at her later.

That is precisely how the situation played itself out. Emma sat nervously on the staircase which was a safe distance from the customers. With her dark green eyes full of shame, she ushered her father over with a wave of her hand. She explained what had happened, trying her best to turn on the waterworks, and hung her head low.

"It's…I…" stuttered Mr. Corwell with frustration. His mouth opened and closed, keeping some words in and letting some out. His arms rose up in anger and a vein in his forehead stressed. "We will talk—when we are closed—got it?"

Emma stomped her way up to their apartment and slammed the door, unable to hide her emotions, something she had trouble with. She sat on her bed, ripped off her boots, and chucked them across the room. With a dramatic sigh, she plopped herself down and closed her eyes.

Moments later, though, she couldn't help but see Spot Conlon in her mind. The image in itself calmed her down, and she thought it was rather peculiar at the same time.

A while later, with three papers left to sell, Spot Conlon's eyes shifted to the cold ground and found something peculiar as well. There, at the base of the street sign, with a shoelace attached to it, was a bronze key. He picked it up and examined it as if to make sure it were real. He blinked and made his way to Flynn's, but found a bold sign on its door: "CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER."

Spot knew no other way of reaching Emma. He didn't know her last name or anything else about her. He would stop by the shop tomorrow, or the next day if need be, to talk to the clerk to track her down. Until then, he would wear the key around his neck, nestled right next to his heart, so he wouldn't lose it.


	3. With Love, from Emma

**Part I, Chapter III**

**December 2, 1895**

**Brooklyn, New York**

It had been four days Spot had kept Emma's key around his neck. Flynn's had been closed for the entire weekend since Thanksgiving. Come Monday, Spot sold his fifty papers and walked into the baking shop.

"D'you remembah a girl comin' in heah on Wednesday?" he asked Flynn.

The clerk jogged his memory back four days and looked up at the ceiling. "What's she look like?"

Spot thought a moment and pictured Emma standing in front of him. "Uhm…brown hair, green eyes, 'bout my age, I guess. She dropped this an' I gotta get it back to 'er." He held out the bronze key and Flynn nodded.

"The Corwell's! Good customers of mine. They own Corwell Bakery. Lost one 'a the keys, did she? I wouldn't expect anything else from that girl…"

"Corwell Bakery? Is that in Brooklyn?"

Flynn eyed him skeptically. "Why don't I take care 'a that, son."

"No. I said I'd get it back to 'er."

"Son, just hand me the key."

Spot scowled at Flynn, offended, and shoved the key back into his coat. He stomped out of the shop stubbornly and realized his dignity had gotten in the way of his needing directions. He sighed and rounded the corner.

It had taken Spot a long while to track down Corwell Bakery. He had thought he knew Brooklyn like the back of his hand, but there were some places, it seemed, he had never seen before. He did not sell for the afternoon edition and instead, devoted his day to locating Emma. After all, she had said the key was very important.

"When you're finished with that, wipe down the counters," Mr. Corwell told Emma as she dunked a thick brush reluctantly into a bucket of soap water. "All these grubby customers puttin' their rotten fingers all over the clean glass…Disgusting."

Emma released a dramatic sigh and began scrubbing away at the floorboards. After having lost the bakery's only key, her father gave her a laundry list of chores to complete for an "undetermined period of time," he had said with an adamant stare. The list required twice as much work as she carried out on a daily basis.

Only a few minutes had passed and Emma took a look at the amount of space that had to be cleaned. The lobby looked twice the size as it normally did. She threw the brush down and folded her arms over her chest, pouting. Mr. Corwell walked through the kitchen towards the staircase.

"Clean!" he ordered as he walked past Emma. "No more pouting. You need to learn how to take control of your actions. After thirteen years I'd have thought you could dothat at least."

Emma, with angry, hot, adolescent tears in her eyes, dramatically picked up the brush again and started scrubbing.

Minutes passed slowly, and Emma was nearly finished re-stocking the shelves when a knock came to the lobby door. Her back was turned and she pretended she heard nothing. From the apartment, Mrs. Corwell reached her head out and called for Emma to answer it.

"Can't! It's not on my to-do list!" shouted Emma impulsively.

"Emma Marie, answer that door _right_ now or you'll scrub every inch of the kitchen with a toothbrush every day for the next month! And quit mouthing off!"

Now intimidated, Emma turned and headed for the door. The "Closed" sign was already facing outward, so instead, without looking, she pulled down the blinds and walked away. She never looked at the person on the other side.

Moments later, the round of knocking repeated. This time, Emma unlocked the door, frustrated, and opened it just a crack.

"What d'you want?"

Thick snowflakes scattered the street and prevented her from a clear visual of the visitor. They responded, "Uhm, this is the Corwell's, ain't it?"

"Yeah, that's what the sign says, kid." She looked closer and paused.

"It's Emma, right?"

Her eyes widened a little and her heart skipped a beat, sending her pulse to speed up its pace. It was the newsie she had encountered twice before in her life. She opened the door wider and, as if eternally grateful, Spot stepped inside from the cold. Neither said anything.

"So, what, uhm…do you want anything? Coffee, er…somethin'?" stammered Emma, watching the clean floorboards soak in snow and water from Spot's shoes and pants.

"I'm fine. I found this." Spot reached his frozen, bare hand in his coat and yanked the shoestring from his neck. Emma's key dangled inches from her astonished face.  
"Oh! You really found it!"

"Yeah," chattered Spot, "right after you lost it. Ya said ya needed it." His lean body shuddered with cold as he tried to warm up within the building.

Emma could tell without even asking the lengths this poor boy had gone to just to get the key back in her possession. It looked as though he had trekked a hundred miles in the blizzard just to get it back to her. Her heart went out to him with deep appreciation, but at the same time, it ached.

"So, d'you still need it?" asked Spot after Emma had stared at him without taking the key for a long moment.

"Uhm, well…we had the locks changed already, so that key…won't work," she replied gently.

Spot's shoulders slumped upon hearing her response. His arm came down to his side as if all his energy, even the last bit it took to even speak, had been used up. He let out a sigh, unable to formulate speech; the cold weather had frozen his mind temporarily.

"Emma!" came Mr. Corwell's voice from the apartment. "What're you doing down there?"

Emma jumped and gasped slightly. "You have to go!" she whispered to Spot harshly. She opened the door again and ushered him out, not thinking about the blizzard but only of her father. "I'm sorry!"

"Wait, what about…" he held up the key again.

"Keep it!" she replied quickly and shut the door.

Spot stood still for a while in the same position. His bottom lip fell open and he tried to register what had happened. He had hiked up and down Brooklyn trying to find Emma, all the while trudging through a snowstorm which was getting worse with every passing minute, only to find she didn't need the key at all anymore. _Women_, he thought cynically.

Spot made it to the corner of the block successfully about five minutes later when he retied the key around his neck to keep, as if it were a meaningful gift to him. He imagined those stupid, romantic cards which often read, "With love, from so-and-so." In this case, he could read "With love, from Emma," in his mind, but he knew it was probably nothing. Then, from behind him he heard the door slam closed and he turned to find Emma jogging towards him. He looked around and wondered how crazy this girl _really_ was.

"I'm sorry!" she said as she buttoned up her heavy coat when she met up with him. Without another word, she took his bare hands from his pockets and slipped thick wool gloves onto each of them. She then took a scarf and wrapped it around his bare neck.

Spot looked at her. Her face was full of sympathy and her expressive green eyes resembled those of a puppy's. Snowflakes fluttered into herdark eyelashes.He couldn't help but be grateful. "Thanks."

Emma took her mitten-covered hand and shoved it in his. "I haven't caught your name yet."

Spot knew he had to think about that. She had been the one who triggered his nickname years ago, which would become legend for him in the distant future. His mouth fell open and he closed it quickly. "Conlon. Uh, Spot. Conlon."

Emma's lips spread into a knowing smile. She said nothing but he looked to the snow-covered ground and felt his cheeks burn. As if reading his mind, which was chanting "please don't bring up the fact you made it up," she said nothing.

"Well, hopefully we'll run into each other again, Spot." She tightened up his scarf in a motherly way and made her way back home. "Maybe on purpose, too."


	4. Shooters

**Part I, Chapter IV**

**June 1, 1897**

**Brooklyn, New York**

"I'm tellin' ya, Oliver, it's too risky…"

Spot Conlon entered the bunkroom of the lodging house late in the evening of a warm spring day. Interrupting, the Brooklyn leader, Oliver, and his second-in-command, Catch, stopped conversation and looked to the direction of the doorway. Spot stood still for a moment staring back. Catch stomped past him and down the staircase.

"What'd ya hear, Conlon?" asked Oliver in an exhausted tone of voice. He lowered himself to his mattress and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Nothin'," replied Spot, "'cept Catch sayin' it's too risky." He made his way over to his bunk and pulled a wooden box from underneath. Taking a seat on the bed, he pulled a small handful of marbles from the box and placed them in his pocket.

Oliver let out a tired sigh. He was only two years older than Spot, making him seventeen, but often times he carried the weight of a middle-aged man running an underground crime ring. He was the reigning ruler of Brooklyn and no part of that job was restless. He looked at Spot from across the room.

"Well, I might as well tell ya, then," the older boy said. "You'se be hearin' about it sooner er later from the boys."

"What's goin' on?" Spot looked up from his bunk.

"Thayer Street. That's what's goin' on. They'se got this gang ovah there that's causin' a whole mess 'a trouble. Now, I ain't one to stand in the way 'a some group 'a guys gettin' together an' messin' around a lil' bit, but they startin' to pick fights with us and crossin' our turf too much."

Spot nodded dutifully. He had heard about Thayer Street recently. They made a habit of pulling pranks and then turning in the newsies whenever they got caught. Just one week before, a group of Thayer Street boys started a fire on one of the sets of the theater and before anyone else could get to the police, Thayer Street told the cops that Patches, one of the younger Brooklyn newsies, was the one who started it. Patches got taken away to the refuge and nobody had heard from him since then.

"Catch thinks we shouldn't do anythin' about 'em 'cause they'se got more boys," added Oliver. He looked intently at Spot for a moment and asked sternly, "Whadda you think?"

The younger boy thought for a moment. Oliver had confided information in him like this before, so it was no surprise when he asked for Spot's input. After all, after declaring himself the most intimidating and bravest newsie in Brooklyn, Spot's opinion only added to a confidence which increased with every covert Brooklyn operation he had heard about. Oliver had taken a liking to the Irish fifteen-year-old.

"I gotta disagree with Catch," answered Spot. "I mean, what're ya gonna do if somethin' else happens? Ya gotta let 'em know they can't mess around and get away with it so easy. I say ya go in and show 'em whose turf they on."

Oliver nodded in agreement. "Yeah, yeah, exactly. God, Catch is gettin' soft lately. Ev'ry time I get woid 'a some group 'a boys that might be a threat, he gets all 'they'se bigger than us' and 'they'se got more weapons!' Turnin' into a goil."

"Turnin' into a _pussy_, is what is he is," blurted out Spot without reservation.

Oliver blinked. "Uh, yeah. Pussy. Yer right."

* * *

"So, guess what's happenin' on Thayer Street," prompted Spot. He hopped down from a crate box and caught his balance on an overturned pole which lied on the dock.

"Some newsies are holdin' up a bank and you're all gonna be rich when they get back," guessed Emma. She knocked a broken glass bottle from the top of a barrel and hoisted herself upon it. She watched Spot with skeptical eyes as he tried to stand up on the side of the cylindrical pole.

"Nice try." Spot hunched forward, then back again, trying to keep the pole from rolling out from underneath him.

"You're gonna fall and crack your head open and then I'm gonna have to explain to Oliver why you're such a dumbass," warned Emma.

Taking her advice, Spot stepped off and sat on a wooden crate box. He replied arrogantly, "I coulda stayed on fer longer. Just didn't feel like it. Anyway, Thayer Street's startin' to gang up on some 'a the newsies, Oliver's sayin'. Catch doesn't wanna get involved. _Psh_. Figures. "

"What d'you mean? 'Figures'? If Catch doesn't think it's a good idea, he might have a point. He's pretty much one of the leaders anyway." Emma looked to her right and flicked a pebble into the dark, murky water of the East River.

"_Oliver_'s the one who makes all the decisions, Em. He asked what I'd do 'bout it, so I says ya gotta let 'em know who's in charge in Brooklyn. Maybe we'll go take 'em out er somethin'…"

Spot looked pensive as if hoping that would in fact take place. It didn't take a genius to figure out Spot was just plotting ways to become _the_ most respected newsie in Brooklyn, no matter who got in the way. Emma rolled her eyes and hopped down from the barrel. She had heard him talk like this all the time and in some ways, it amused her.

"So, how're you gonna go about doin' that? Takin 'em out?"

"Simple. I just got a hold 'a some new shooters today." He jumped down to the dock and dug around his pocket, pulling out three marbles. He scoped out a row of glass bottles he had set up that afternoon on a wooden beam and retrieved the slingshot from his waistband.

"Showin' off again?" teased Emma.

"Nah. I don't gotta impress you."

Emma furrowed her eyebrows and looked at him sternly. "What's that mean?"

Spot glanced at Emma, at the bottles in the distance, then back at Emma again, who was making the offended face she always made. He had come to know that face very well in one and a half years they had become close friends. She wasn't truly upset, he could tell, but she was always hard to persuade.

"Uh, I just mean…" stammered Spot. "Yeah."

He also knew Emma well enough to know time healed almost everything with her. No matter how angry she could get over something, trivial or monumental, time would work against her and she would end up forgiving and forgetting. When the two of them had gotten into arguments, neither of them would back down. They were both as stubborn as they come, but Emma always managed to let things go more often than Spot. The quality contrasted directly with her stubbornness.

Emma rolled her eyes and walked over to his side, shaking off the comment. She picked up a marble and looked at it closely. Spot watched to see how she would handle one of his most prized possessions. Emma closed one eye and lined up her shot. She pulled back the rubber band and let go, and Spot watched the marble shoot through the air to shatter one of the glass bottles. Oblivious to her skill, Emma let out a "hm!" and set down the slingshot. Spot said nothing.

"Well, it's gettin' kinda late. I should get ya home," said Spot after he noticed how low the sun was setting in the distance. Emma fluffed off the idea she needed an escort and walked herself out of the docks as he kept up alongside her.

Spot knew they were only friends. They had been friends ever since he had located her key and tried to get it back to her. She had conveniently bumped into him more frequently and a bond grew out of it. Of course their relationship was strictly platonic, for Spot often treated her with the similar demeanor as one of the boys. But lately, he had been struggling with walking her home. He did fine up until they made it to the door to say goodbye.

"So, you're not getting in over your head with this Thayer Street business, are ya?" inquired Emma as she pulled a long, golden lock of hair to her fingers to untangle.

Spot paused. "What's it ta you?"

Emma knitted her eyebrows and made a face. "What d'you mean, 'what's it to me?'"

He shrugged and looked around to avoid her eyes. They had been tantalizing him recently. He never truly noticed just how green they were. When he looked back at her, he found himself moments later brushing back a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear when it fell into her eyes.

Emma hesitated. She looked up at him and pressed her lips together. "I have to get inside."

Spot dropped his hand and started to walk away. "Right. I'll, uh, see ya tomorrow."

"Spot." She waited until he turned around to face her. "You'll be okay, won't you?"

Without a word, he nodded his head. He committed the way she looked right now to his memory, for he felt the moment had to be saved somehow. Her face was flushed and her eyes full of concern, but still so agonizingly green. She walked inside and he made his way back to the lodging house.


	5. Brooklyn's Ego

**Part I, Chapter V**

**June 7, 1897**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Mr. Edward Corwell had been ringing up his last customer for the day when Spot entered the bakery lobby. He had approved of the young newsie spending time with his daughter, only under the circumstances they would remain friends. Sure, Spot was respectful enough towards Mr. Corwell and they got along just fine, but the relationship between the boy and his daughter was not to cross the line. In no way would he allow Emma to build a future with a newsboy, orphan, or gang member.

The two exchanged normal conversation, talking about the weather and politics and baseball. "Yes, I noticed the temperature was a little low for June." "He's a damn right fit to be mayor of Brooklyn." "Yep. Our boys are doin' fine."

"You guys are boring," interrupted Emma as she exited the kitchen. "Talk about interesting things for a change."

As Mr. Corwell counted the money from the cash register, Spot and Emma hopped up onto the counter and sat eating the sandwiches Emma had made that evening. They chatted about this and that, nothing anymore fascinating than Mr. Corwell's and Spot's conversation. Spot had informed her that Bolt walked out of Sheepshead Bay with eighteen dollars in his pocket, to which Emma almost choked on her food.

He also told her Oliver had been making trips to places Catch didn't even know about. Upon this, Emma prompted him to keep talking, and in response, Spot nodded at Mr. Corwell. Emma nodded and understood, shoving more of her turkey sandwich into her mouth.

Mrs. Corwell came down from the apartment with hands full of papers. She set them on the counter beside her husband and just as she left to climb the staircase again, she said to him, "Edward, when you get upstairs we need to talk about going to…" she hesitated, glanced at Emma, who had not been paying attention, and continued, "we need to talk about Philadelphia."

"Oh. Right, Helen. I'll be up in a second." Not a minute passed and Mr. Corwell had made his way upstairs.

Spot looked at Emma once he was gone and asked, "What's in Philly?"

Emma shrugged. "I dunno. Family. So, what's up with Oliver? You cut me off at the good part."

"Oh, yeah." Spot scooted in closer and looked back to make sure Mr. Corwell was out of earshot. His voice quieted and he continued, "Thompson tells me Catch is gettin' all bent outta shape about Oliver keepin' things from him and randomly not showin' up fer days at a time. Oliver was gone for three days and didn't tell nobody he was goin' anywhere and didn't say nothin' when he got back."

"So, what's that mean? What was he doing?" asked Emma, completely enthralled in the story. Her face grew full of expression and intrigue.

"I think it's got somethin' to do with Thayer Street. But I ain't positive 'bout what exactly. I know it's startin' ta get around and rumors are startin' ta get out in the bunks. One 'a the boys comes up to me today and says, 'I heard we're goin' in and killin' off Thayer Street an' I want you'se ta know I'm with ya!' But I ain't confirmed anything yet."

Emma looked up in thought. She bit off the last bite of bread. "Why'd that kid say he was with _you_?"

Spot looked down and Emma could tell he was hiding a smirk of some sort. She raised his chin with her index finger so she could look at him in the face. She repeated her question and Spot sat back against the counter shelf.

"Thompson says he overheard Oliver fightin' with Catch last night. Catch was givin' him shit about startin' up somethin' with Thayer Street and how he's not gonna have any support if Catch's got anythin' to say about it. Then he says Oliver tells Catch, 'That ain't true, I'se got more guys'n you'd think. Hell, I'll just take Conlon and we'll both just go handle the situation!'"

Emma swallowed her food and thought about how to respond. "So, Oliver's takin' a liking to you, has he?"

Spot shrugged and sat up straight. His eyes traveled upward as if to the sky and his chest puffed out arrogantly before answering, "Apparently I'm hot shit."

Emma rolled her eyes and punched him in the chest. Spot immediately hunched his shoulders and he let out a breath of air. Offended, he rubbed the spot she had hit him and cursed.

"Damn, what was that for?"

"Bein' a cocky bastard."

"Hey, ya gotta let me know now if ya can't handle me movin' up in the ranks, Em. Honestly."

He picked up his sandwich and brought it up to his mouth. Before he could take a bite, Emma grabbed it and threw it on the floor. He threw up his hands and cursed again at her. Emma hopped down from the counter and cleared her setting without a response.

"Emma, whatsa matter with you today, huh?"

Spot followed her back into the kitchen. Emma remained silent as she rolled up her sleeves and began scrubbing her dishes clean. She shoved a rag into Spot's hand and, without asking, ordered him to do the same.

"No." He threw down his food, plate, and rag all onto the floor.

"Hey!" Emma placed her hand on her hip adamantly in frustration.

"I ain't doin' anything till you tell me what's up. You been actin' weird evah since I mentioned Thayer Street and Oliver. Hell, just yesterday ya spilled yer drink all over me as soon as I made a comment about it!"

"'Cause you're gettin' full 'a yourself about all this! Makes me sick every time you mention it 'cause I know you're gonna make some self-absorbed revelation about yourself and how Oliver just loves you _so_ much!"

"What's that s'posed to mean?"

"It means you're goin' up your own ass and I don't feel like following!"

She picked up what Spot had thrown to the floor and tossed the food into the trash. She prompted Spot to clean his own plate, and so, the two of them, wrapped up in their own obstinacy, stood at the wash bin in silence.

* * *

The argument Emma had had with Spot earlier in the evening had struck a chord with Emma. It was a fact the two had always quarreled and gotten into their fair share of arguments. It was only in their nature to do so, and usually they were over almost instantly. They would each speak their piece about the topic and because they both refused to back down, nothing was ever quite resolved, but generally forgotten.

She had been lying in bed for over and hour, staring up at the ceiling and tossing around beneath the covers. The situations within the last week had been bothering her more so than any pickles Spot had gotten himself into before, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. She just had a feeling this would end up different.

Just as Emma had imagined the argument for the umpteenth time, there came a round of knocks at her bedroom window. Emma knew instantly it was Spot. She sighed and got out of bed. Pulling back the curtains and opening it up, she found Spot sitting on the fire escape looking up at her through the tops of his eyes. She crossed her arms over each other and placed them on the window ledge.

"Hi," she greeted flatly.

"Hi."

"What're ya doin' out this late?"

"Thinkin'."

"About what?"

"You."

At first, Emma was tickled and felt her cheeks burn by the fact he had been thinking about her. Flattered she was, but it made her giggle the way she had when she first met him seven years ago. However, she remembered the only reason Spot had been thinking about her was the same as why she couldn't sleep either. They had had a fight. They were friends, and they had a fight.

"Things are changing, Spot. I can't help but think you're losin' your head sometimes."

Spot inhaled deeply as if he were trying to hold in his anger. He took a few steps up and down the wrought iron stairs and eventually made his way back to Emma.

"You'se right about one thing, but I ain't losin' my head, Em. I know what I'm doin' and I know what's goin' on with Thayer Street. So, Oliver thinks I'm good fer the job, if there even _is_ a job to begin with. I know I'm good for it, too…"

"But you _don't _know what's goin' on with Thayer Street, Spot." Her voice was full of repetitious exhaustion, as though she had been trying to beat it into him. "You _don't_ know what Oliver wants you to do, if anything at all. The more I think about it, the worse the situations I'm imagining for you. I'm just…"

"Worried," finished Spot to her trailing sentence, and she looked at him when he said it. "You're scared fer me."

Emma eyed him. The moon was dim and the lighting low, but she could see him clearly, and a part of her ached. A part of her yearned for him but she didn't for what. She looked at him directly and for the first time, she felt like she could back down.

"Yes," she heard herself say. "I _am_ scared for you, Spot."

He placed his hands in his pockets and looked down. He felt like because she was being honest with him, he should listen to her for a change. For her sake, he decided to listen, and somehow he felt it would benefit him as well.

The breeze whirled around him gently and he sat back down, facing her. He looked at her, though she looked down, and tucked piece of her light hair behind her ear. This time, Emma looked up into his eyes without hesitation. _My god_, she thought, _his eyes are gorgeous_. Even in the dead of night.

Spot moved closer to her and pressed his cheek against hers, and close enough so his lips could speak into her ear, though he said nothing. They had been close the moment they had become good friends, but not like this. It was scary and monumental and exciting at the same time. Friends, Spot knew, rarely had moments of that magnitude. He had kissed her, without even letting his lips touch her.

"I should go," interrupted Emma. Slowly, she pulled away from his embrace.

"Right." He waited a moment while he looked at her before turning away. He saw her in a different light. "Goodnight, Emma."

"Goodnight, Spot."


	6. Lucky

**Part I, Chapter VI**

**June 12, 1897**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Luck had been on Spot's side lately. On his way to selling that morning, he had found a dollar bill lying carelessly at his corner and nobody had stopped him from taking it. The sun had greeted him as soon as he had walked out the door and there was no sign of it going away, judging from its radiance in the bright blue sky. Selling for the day was turning out to be well above average, though he owed _that_ to his master skill of hawking headlines, not luck.

"Hey stranger."

Spot turned and faced Emma. She had her arm stretched out before her with a penny pinched between her index finger and thumb. A playful smile etched her entire face and her eyes drove him mad. It had been four days since Spot had approached her bedroom window to resolve their fight. He wasn't surprised to see her calm when he had gone there, or even now; give Emma some time and she'll cool down from almost anything. That's the way it always was.

But the two hadn't brought up nor said a thing about what had happened. They almost kissed, which is _not_ something friends do. Though he didn't want to admit it to himself, Spot was afraid. He was scared he might lose Emma if things changed or if he let his own ego get in the way of her presence in his life. Instead, he shook the thoughts away whenever they came to his mind.

"It's on me, doll," responded Spot as he handed her the paper and curled up her fingers to hide the penny.

Emma smiled haughtily and leaned against the corner of the building at their corner of Pine and 4th. She crossed one ankle over the other and opened her paper widely, the way she usually did when she visited him every morning.

"Well, you better hope you get lucky with customers today," said Emma. "These headlines are duller than a bag 'a rocks."

Spot smirked and popped his hands out. "Em, please. I _got_ this."

She looked up and rolled her eyes casually. As Spot continued to sell and Emma remained there for a few minutes, Bolt ran up to the street corner in a hurry.

"Conlon, ya gotta be done sellin'," said Bolt, out of breath.

"Uh, no, I got about ten more papes ta sell."

"No, it's Oliver. He an' Catch are talkin' right now at the lodging house and he asked me to go get you right away."

"What…why?..."

Instinctively he looked at Emma, who was pretending not to listen but was doing a poor job of it; Spot could tell her eyes were deadlocked on one part of the page only to simulate reading. He knew full well she was listening to every word. Briefly, her eyes glanced up at his.

Bolt pulled at Spot's shirt and began running back towards the lodging house. Obviously the mission had been a sacred one, for he had never seen Bolt so act so skittish. Spot stammered his speech and scratched the back of his head. He took one step forward, one step back, until he ended up facing Emma.

"Conlon, this ain't a joke! They gotta talk to ya right _now_, I think it's about Thayer Street!" prompted Bolt.

Emma's eyes were expressionless. Spot could see right through it. She was telling him, _warning_ him, that if he went, she would be disappointed because she knew he would do something stupid. But a part of Spot was angry with the way she was treating him, and that was the part that dictated his arrogance. Bolt continued to yell at him and Spot was undaunted from his attempts. He was staring, _fighting_, with Emma's gaze, until he let up and made a decision.

"Em…"

She straightened up to hear his answer.

"I'll see ya tonight."

He took off behind Bolt, leaving all of his papers behind and Emma in a cloud of dust from the heels of his feet.

* * *

The lodging house was empty, save for the caretaker at the front desk. Spot felt his stomach flutter with butterflies when he and Bolt made their way up the staircase. He had no idea what was going on, but he felt as though people were going to jump out and yell "Surprise!" as soon as he entered the bunkroom.

Alas, there was no crowd of people waiting for him on the other side of the door and no exclamation was made on his arrival. Instead, Oliver and Catch sat around a makeshift, crate box table in the center of the room and each held a burning cigarette in the corners of their mouths.

Bolt shut the door behind him as he left and Spot felt his stomach drop. He imagined his face losing color for a moment, his lips closing, and his jaw locking up. He knew this had something to do with Thayer Street, and all he could think of was Emma. She was going to kill him before any Thayer Street boy would get a chance to, if in fact that was what they were going to discuss with him.

Catch smoked fervently and flicked the ashes onto the crate box in front of him. He watched Spot enter through the tops of his eyes, and Oliver ushered him to have a seat.

"Well, the boys probably don' know this yet, but Catch an' I are goin' down to Thayer Street to straighten things out," said Oliver. "This mornin' they got hold 'a Johnny ovah by the docks and gave 'im a good soakin', enough to break his arm, break his nose and take all his money."

"Not to mention they did it right after Oliver told 'em ta watch it," added Catch. He blew smoke out of his mouth and said, "I didn't think this was gonna happen, but obviously we gotta go do somethin'. Thank god Johnny's got a family and don't gotta live heah. He limped ovah to the distribution place and we had ta carry 'im back home, which is probably why you didn't hear nothin' about it yet."

Spot nodded and his eyebrows knitted. He had seen some good soakings in his life, but Johnny must have been in pretty bad shape if it drove Catch to change his mind about Thayer Street. Now, he couldn't figure out why he was being told this, secretively, nonetheless.

"Now, Conlon," started Oliver as he leaned forward in his chair, "Catch an' I are gonna go to Thayer Street. I'm guessin' we'll be gone fer a few days, 'cause we'll be makin' stops at other gangs around Brooklyn. The guys can't know a whole lot about it, a'right?"

Spot listened intently, still waiting for the reason he had been brought here.

"Conlon, Oliver heah seems to think you'se some kinda prized possession in Brooklyn," spat Catch, "so we'se givin' you a choice: come with us an' help us out, but you won't be doin' much talkin' er anything; or stay heah and be in charge while we're gone, makin' sure nothin' too bad happens. What d'you wanna do?"

Sitting back and looking toward the ceiling, Spot thought about his decision. Spot knew _exactly_ what he wanted to do: go with them. He wanted to be there, looking at his enemies in the eye. He wanted a say in what was going on in their part of Brooklyn. He wanted Oliver to look at him afterward and know instantly he had found the next leader of Brooklyn.

Then he thought of Emma. There lay two pistols on the crate box in front of him and he knew for a fact both Oliver and Catch kept a hand knife on them always. He imagined Emma's face upon telling her he would be gone for a week, slingshot in his waistband, pistol in his pocket, and knife fashioned close to his ankle. She probably wouldn't speak to him again. But she just didn't understand sometimes.

"If ya stay heah, you can oversee everythin' the boys're doin'…have a say in _their_ problems…get chance fer them to look up to you…" said Catch in a drone voice. Immediately Spot could tell he didn't like him very much.

"But if ya go with us, you can see how we handle things, what ya should an' shouldn't do out there, get ta know our allies an' such," offered Oliver temptingly. "You'se pretty lucky, I'm gonna take some 'a the older guys, but I think you can handle this too."

Catch exhaled smoke harshly from his nostrils.

Spot put himself into Oliver's scenario. He was shaking hands with the boys from Red Hook and Hatterfield, laying down the law with Thayer Street and any other gang that refused to listen. He was in charge, alongside Oliver. He then put himself in Catch's scenario. The boys would look up to him and he would truly feel in control of Brooklyn, at least _his_ territory of it. He would be able to see Emma. Even so, the idea of turning down Oliver's offer upset him, and saying yes to Catch was maddening. Emma would just have to deal with his decision, and she would be over it with time.

"A'right," said Spot after much thought and deliberation, as Catch and Oliver both stamped out their cigarettes and leaned forward. "Tell me what I gotta do," continued Spot as he sighed reluctantly. "I'll go with ya."

Though he knew Emma would not like his decision, he pushed those thoughts aside and determined that,compared tothe rest of the boys in the bunkroom, he was damn lucky.


	7. Stolen

**Part I, Chapter VII**

**June 13, 1897**

**Brooklyn, New York**

The following evening, Spot and Emma stood quietly on the fire escape outside her bedroom. He had his arms resting on the iron railing as his eyes traveled aimlessly over the buildings and streets below him, anywhere but next to him. The evening was slowly dipping into night, and from where they were standing, a pattern of stars could be seen just above them in a dark blue sky. He had, at the present time, informed Emma that he would be gone for a few days for his trip around Brooklyn with Catch and Oliver.

"I just…" Emma's voice shook slightly and she hesitated before continuing. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and said, "I just didn't think you'd make that kind of decision."

It was the first time Emma had ever swelled tears in front of Spot. Under any other circumstances, she would have given him an earful and pretended not to hear his defense. Now, she was so angered by him she was physically sad. She stationed herself to face her apartment, opposite of Spot and still close to him. She wanted to punch him in the gut, smack him in the face, do something to relieve her anger, the way she usually did. The nearness to him made that impossible.

"I mean, without even…You didn't listen to a word I said, did you?" Emma turned and looked at him sternly, though his eyes stared in front of him.

"I did, Emma, but there's just some things I gotta do. I didn't mean to hurt you, but you gotta understand that it's _my_ life. I don't go tellin' ya how ta run the bakery, do I?"

"That's different, Spot. The bakery isn't something I have to carry a _gun_ on me to work for. I wasn't given a choice whether I should stay in Brooklyn or go and get myself hurt." She could feel her voice slowly gaining volume and steady passion again.

Spot sighed, annoyed, and craned his head back. "Emma, I'm gonna be _fine_. I ain't goin' by myself er anythin', Oliver an' Catch are goin' with me. Yeah, I might get a scratch er two, but that's just my way 'a life. It ain't like I've nevah been in a fight before. You gotta learn ta trust me."

Emma shook her head and pushed herself from the railing. A force raked through her body and gave her a rush of energy full of anger and confusion. Feeling herself tremble and her eyes swell once more with tears, she stomped over to sit on the top step of the structure.

"It's that you didn't _listen_ to me, Spot, that bothers me!" Her voice was shrill and shaky now, though she had managed to keep it from exceeding normal volume. "I told you I was worried about you and that I didn't think gettin' in over your head was a good idea! Did you misread _all_ those signals I was giving out? Did you pick up on _anything_ I was doing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I must've gotten lost in all the times ya smacked me or threw shit at me or insulted me! Instead 'a tellin' me I'm a cocky bastard, why don'tcha say what's _really_ the matter? Ya gotta work on your communication skills, Em, if you expect _anyone_ to listen to a goddamn word ya're sayin'."

"Don't talk to me about communication skills when you can't even process what someone's tellin' you!"

"Emma, I took yer words into consideration, believe me, I really did. But you ain't a newsie, you don't live with these boys, and you sure as hell have no idea what kinda position I'm in, a'right?"

Emma shook her head relentlessly and responded sarcastically, "Whatever you say, Spot."

With a scoff, Spot turned from the railing and hoisted himself over her. He landed with his feet a few steps below hers, and looked her directly in the eye. She was unable to escape him now, and she feared she might do something crazy with his close proximity. With a pointed finger, he said to her, "Don't you tell me I ain't listenin' ta you, when you make a comment like that. A'right?"

As if being scolded, Emma crossed her arms over her chest. She pouted her lips, furrowed her eyebrows, and looked away. The lump in her throat was getting bigger by the second, and though she tried to fight it, the tears kept flooding her eyes. Spot recoiled a little and stepped back, though he was still frustrated and visibly angry.

They remained still for several moments. Neither of them said a word but, even in her anger, Emma couldn't help but stare at Spot. She traveled from his legs all the way up to his face, which turn to look opposite her. No one could make her angrier and spellbound at the same time. The effect he had on her made her want to rip her hair out.

Spot let out a resolute sigh and sat down two steps below her. He found his hand happened to rest on her knee as his hand held up his chin to rest upon. The silence between them was full of confusion and anger and excitement at the same time, if at all possible. His eyes glanced up at hers momentarily, and she turned away quickly as soon as he looked at her.

"I should go inside, this isn't helping anything," said Emma, still turned away. She remained a moment as if waiting for Spot to stop her.

"Fine." He stayed still as well, watching her, daring her, rather, to leave.

She gripped his hand tightly on her knee before getting up. She was still frustrated as hell with him and being so close to him was not helping. She stood slowly and turned to go inside. The window opened slowly, for subconsciously she knew she wanted Spot to make her quit and turn around again.

"Emma."

She turned quickly and looked at him. With his blue eyes locked forcefully with hers, he got up and walked up the steps without losing her gaze. Emma faced him, her nerves shaking with anger still. She wanted to slap him when he got closer, but a part of her told her not to.

"What's botherin' you ain't just Thayer Street, is it?" asked Spot.

Emma crossed her arms and turned her head. "What are you talking about?"

He approached her and grabbed her arms tightly. "Goddamn, you speak yer mind fer ev'rything else except fer this…"

"_God_, you're so…Ugh!" she scoffed angrily and shook her head to motion frustration. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

Her eyes motioned back to his, which were so close she was anxious. Without hesitation, Spot grabbed the back of her neck and pressed his lips against hers hard. The kiss was completely stolen. Emma pulled back and smacked him across the face. Yet not a moment later she gripped his hips tightly, and pulling him close to her, kissed him back with more passion.

"God, I hate what you do to me," she said between kisses.

"No." He gripped her cheek and held her face with command. "You really don't."


	8. The Streets of Brooklyn

**Part I, Chapter VIII**

**June 17, 1897**

**Brooklyn, New York**

The following days passed like a blur for Spot. He traveled with Oliver and Catch up and down Brooklyn and went to places he had never even known existed. Brooklyn was, apparently, much greater and larger than he anticipated. They made stops along the way to talk with local youth gangs and Spot hiked through more alleyways and underground meeting houses than he cared to see. They slept on the streets at night, ate twice a day, and walked until their legs gave out.

Catch made little conversation with Spot, and Oliver kept silent most of the time. When Spot had asked why they needed to talk with so many boys, Oliver simply looked at Catch to answer, who in turn spat back, "Why ya gotta ask so many questions? You'se just heah fer the experience."

Spot cursed him scathingly under his breath, to which Oliver laughed at and nodded in agreement. One thing was for sure, he thought, Spot would never let his second-in-command have this much authority, if ever he would rise to become leader.

After three days, five meetings, and feet so sore they had become numb, Spot stopped behind Oliver and Catch five blocks from their own territory. They stood in front of a small, Italian-owned diner named Mama's and he recognized it vaguely though he had never been inside. If he squinted while looking to his left, he could clearly make out the docks near the lodging house.

"Ya mean ta tell me we walked three straight days just ta end up heah? Make a complete circle from where we started?" asked Spot at the point of exhaustion.

"Bettah toughen you up, kid," cracked Catch. Placing a cap on his head which dipped below his eyes, he entered the restaurant.

"Leadahs don't just sit on their asses all day, Conlon," said Oliver, in a less insulting tone. "Ya gotta know this place and these people like the back 'a yer roughed up hand."

Moments later, Catch exited the restaurant, followed by three more Brooklyn boys. Cricket, Roller, and Dodger were the oldest newsies in the lodging house and Spot had rarely encountered them. They were all taller than him (that was for sure) and were by far much stronger. Spot put the addition of the three intimidating boys and the meeting with Thayer Street together, and he could see with Emma had been concerned.

Oliver spit shook with each of the boys and made quick conversations about their journey. He told them Hatterfield had been having problems with Thayer Street as well, and if they should need any support, the newsies had theirs. Red Hook had been difficult to decipher, though with enough persuasion, they swore their allegiance to them. Corker Bay and Miner's Alley desired to remain entirely neutral, while Jackson Street dismissed their proposal altogether. After replaying all the information, Spot felt dizzy.

The six newsies returned to Mama's. _So this is Thayer Street, eh?_ thought Spot as he looked outside the window. He imagined where the gang dwelled in this area, and he thought of a dark, narrow alleyway littered with rats and trash. He imagined the leader sat like a king in his alley with a makeshift throne and subsequent, younger boys to carry out his dirty work.

So, it came as a surprise when Oliver told them they would be at Mama's for a while, and Spot put Thayer Street in this restaurant in his mind. It was late for lunch at Mama's and no customers sat in the dining room. Spot could hear shouts and laughter of a crowd of boys from the lower level.

"What can I get for you boys today?" A waiter appeared at the table, notepad in hand and pen prepared to write quickly. "Any late lunches I can get you?"

"_Yes_," replied Spot thankfully. "I'll have—OW!"

Before Spot could finish his order, Roller had dealt a deafening smack to the back of his head.

"What the hell was that?"

"We'll take six waters. Thanks," resolved Oliver.

The waiter paused and turned on his heels.

"Rule number one: Don't evah be served any type 'a food er alcohol in another territory, _especially_ if you ain't s'posed to be there," scolded Roller.

"Yeah, ya nevah know who spit in yer pasta or took a piss in yer soup," added Cricket bluntly.

Spot sighed and put his hand over his stomach. "What exactly are we waitin' for?"

"Ask some more questions, why don'tcha, Conlon?" snapped Catch with a roll of his eyes.

"Hey," Oliver jabbed Catch in the side with his elbow. "Kid's got a right to know what he's gettin' into."

"Yeah," agreed Dodger. He leaned over the table and examined Spot with careful eyes. "Especially if you guys packed 'im with two knives an' a pistol, when I heard all he carries is a slingshot. No offense."

Spot's skin crawled with goosebumps in the places he had been keeping protection. He had had no use for the weapons yet, but the barrel of the gun suddenly crushed into his hip bone; the smooth side of the blade froze his ankle; and the pocketknife felt a pound heavier than before. The bell above the doorway chimed and in ran a scowling young boy in tattered clothing. He stopped in his tracks and glared at the six newsies in front of him. Spot made eye contact with him and the boy tore off toward the basement. Spot opened his mouth to speak, when a knowing Catch gave him an icy stare.

Just as the waiter brought their glasses of water, the basement door opened and in walked a short, rough-looking boy no older than Oliver. His face was round and mean with lifeless brown eyes and ever-present knitted brows. A small congregation of boys from below began filing into the dining room and the employees of Mama's disappeared conveniently into the kitchen. Oliver and Catch stood up and approached who Spot assumed to be the leader of Thayer Street.

Cricket, Roller and Dodger sat casually in their seats with suspicious eyes and Spot's hand gripped his water tightly. He felt a kick in his leg and Cricket made a face at him.

"Relax," he advised, "yer nerves is written all ovah yer face."

The Thayer Street boys filled the dining room in random places, sitting in the booths and at empty tables. They simulated a swarm of insects about to pester their prey as a whole. They stared down the newsies with threatening eyes. One boy pulled a chair on Spot's side of the table, and though he didn't look at him, Spot could feel him glaring. The boy took hold of Spot's water, hocked back forcefully, and spat directly into it.

"Thanks fer that," responded Spot sarcastically. He slowly let go and put his hands in his pockets. He looked behind him and, through the swarm of boys, could see Catch speaking with animated gestures to their leader.

"You boys ain't lost, are ya?"

A tall and lanky Thayer Street boy placed his hands on the backs of the chairs of Cricket and Dodger. He resembled a hawk the way his long arms stretched over the boys and his dark choppy hair greased atop his head.

"No, we're good, thanks," replied Roller with a fake smile. He chugged his water and wiped clean his mouth as though he were thoroughly satisfied.

Moments later, the leader of Thayer Street resonated throughout the dining room with a forceful punch to the table surface. He, along with Oliver and Catch, rose from their seats. Spot looked back and saw the rival's leader cross his arms over his chest when Oliver held is hand out to shake. The Thayer Street ruler watched coldly the backs of Oliver and Catch as they walked away. Cricket, Roller, and Dodger got up and Spot nervously followed suit.

Spot felt calmer once he tasted the fresh air just outside the door, until Oliver said to them in a fierce, low voice, "Run."

"What?"

"_Run!_"

A marble shattered the window of Mama's beside them and missed Spot by an inch. The newsies took off down the street like a crack of lightning. They ran into bystanders, shoving them violently aside, and sprinting as though the devil were on their heels. Spot looked back for an instant and saw a group of hollering boys chasing after them. He tried his best to keep up with his newsies, even when they scattered the street in a hurry.

Spot had fallen behind after coming to barriers in his way; merchants, women and children, vendors with products on their shoulders. He watched Catch, the leading sprinter, dozens of yard away, rounding the corner. Suddenly, Spot felt a tremendous weight collide fall into his back and he collided with the ground. A ruthless boy had him pinned down with his face crushed hard to the dirt. Spot reeled back his elbow and blindly shoved it into the boy's face, feeling the Thayer Street boy's teeth colliding with his arm. He started to pull the pistol from his waistband and the boy sliced the flesh of Spot's cheekbone, tearing the flesh open in one fluid motion. Spot belted out a painful howl and let go of his weapon.

As he held his bleeding face, the weight of the boy lifted and Spot was hoisted up to his feet forcefully.

"You all right?" panted Oliver quickly.

Spot nodded, retrieved his pistol from the ground, and they continued running. They had rounded the corner a great distance from Mama's, and just when Spot thought they had lost them, he looked back and saw one of the boys had stopped to aim his pistol directly towards them. Spot called for Oliver to get back and he yanked him aside into an alley. The crowd between the boys had parted with the sound of the bullet slicing through the air, and Spot pulled the trigger of his gun.

He was unsure if he had hit the boy or not, but Spot knew his aim was usually dead-on and he rarely missed with a slingshot. Exhausted, he leaned his entire body against the alley as the caught his breath. His hand tingled with an exhilarating sensation from the force of the pistol.

"Nice goin', Conlon," said Oliver in between breaths. He doubled over with his hands gripping his knees. "Ya okay?"

Spot brought his hand to his face and smeared the warm, scarlet blood onto his fingers. "Yeah…I'm fine."

"Good to know ya go my back, kid."

"Yeah. Same heah."

The shrill cry of the police whistle was heard in close proximity. The boys bolted down the alley and out of sight back to the lodging house.


	9. The Fighter

_Apologies for the long wait. I got swamped with school and work. This is a long chapter, but it jumps a year. Consider it a transition chapter as we are edging closer and closer to the _end_ of _Part I_! Enjoy! _

**Part I, Chapter IX**

**March 16, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

There was a strange warmth that spilled into Emma's bedroom that morning. She fluttered her eyes open and was greeted with a ray of sunshine on the door. There was a chill, yes, though slight and there was the warmth that made her comfortable. She turned over to her left and found what else made the morning so pleasant. Spot snoozed peacefully and soundly, his arm resting over her stomach.

Emma turned onto her side to face him. Her eyes scanned over the faint scar across his cheekbone. The light, barely visible line was a permanent reminder of his first trip to Thayer Street. She remembered the day he returned from his trip and he visited her with the fresh scrape on his face. Without a greeting, she had smacked his other cheek immediately and they never spoke of the trip again.

The memory of it made her smile bashfully. Presently she grabbed a few strands of her long, golden blonde hair and dangled them onto his face so that he twitched and swatted until he awoke. A mischievous giggle drew from her mouth as he opened his eyes and rolled onto his back.

"Goddamn, woman," he said in a groggy tone.

"Morning, sunshine."

She crawled closer and jumped onto his stomach playfully. Unprepared and still half asleep, Spot let out a groan as she made herself comfortable, using his abdomen as a pillow.

"You were sleep talking again," she told him. "I tried to have a conversation with you but I couldn't understand what you were sayin'."

"Hm." Spot threw his arm over his eyes tiredly and attempted to go back to sleep. A moment later, he sat up with a start and mumbled, "Wha time 'sit?"

"Come again?"

The sound of a door opening and footsteps on the floorboard in the rest of the apartment was heard. Cursing briefly, Emma jumped. She threw Spot his shoes from across the room and ushered him towards the window. _Not to worry,_ she thought, _he always gets out just in time_. She shoved the window open with force.

"Shit, I think I'm late again," cursed Spot as he crawled effortlessly onto the shaky fire escape. Though the sunlight was warm, the late winter chill greeted Spot and his bare chest and arms harshly. Emma pecked him hastily on the lips and shut the window closed. Spot paused. "Em!"

She turned and he pointed to his naked chest, goosebumps rising on his skin. She looked down and stared at the navy blue button-down of his that she was wearing. Her bare legs shuddered and she opened the window again reluctantly, holding up a finger for him to wait. A smirk was written all over Spot's infamous face. Emma scoffed, disgusted by the expression, and hid behind her dresser. She threw off the shirt, poked only her head out from the dresser, and balled up his garment tightly. With a shake of her head, she hurled the shirt at Spot as he laughed, amused and arrogant.

"See ya later, sweetheart!" he called as he sprinted down the fire escape.

Emma rolled her eyes and jumped quickly into a dress in her closet. Carefully she opened the bedroom door, fearing her parents were standing just outside. Their faces would hold knowing expressions and their accusatory fingers would be pointed to fire at her like a shotgun. Whenever Spot had slept over, there was always the chance her parents would catch them. If that happened, she would never be able to see him again; it scared her half to death.

She strolled out of the room innocently and found her father already reading the paper at the kitchen table as he sipped his coffee. His dark brown eyes looked up at her through his glasses and he sighed. Emma looked down at her feet as she poured a glass of orange juice.

"Late start this morning?" inquired Mr. Corwell.

Emma gulped down the sour drink. "Little bit."

"Had to go out and get my own paper this morning…" he turned the page dramatically and slowly. "Didn't see Spot there either."

She looked up and said nothing. Her heart raced and her mind went blank.

"Then again, I _did_ get up pretty early," he continued.

_He knows_, thought Emma, _There's no way he _can't_ know_. _Oh, god_.

"Edward, Emma! Good, we're all in the same room…" interrupted Mrs. Corwell. She entered the kitchen, seemingly flushed and her hands full of papers. She set them down tiredly on the table and directed Emma to take a seat.

"We need to talk about Philadelphia."

Emma had been hearing the place tossed around in private conversation but she had no idea what the significance was. Immediately, though, a bad feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

"Odds are two to one this wop's got it!" shouted Thompson into Spot's ear. "And five to one on the German bastard!"

Spot took a seat in the crowded basement of Sonny's restaurant. Two young men, no older than twenty, tackled and punched each other to the distasteful delight of a hoard of gin-soaked, cigar-smoking, half-drunk men and boys. During the daytime the restaurant was a quiet, family diner, but as soon as the clock struck ten o'clock the basement swarmed with criminals and night-crawlers determined to defy the law of prohibition.

"This guy's got more balls'n this entire room put together!" screamed Thompson pointing to the Italian boy in the middle of the circle; the fighter was only nineteen years old but looked barely fifteen, and he carried himself like a mob boss for all of Brooklyn.

Spot spread his lips proudly and nodded. He had an affinity for the Italian boxer. Nobody guessed his real age and he was so short in stature he was often mistaken for a boy. He was the underdog to everyone else but himself, and Spot responded to that loudly.

A waitress balancing a tray of shot glasses maneuvered her way through the hooting men and presented the drinks to Thompson and Spot. Her glazed eyes and cherry red lips smiled at Spot. She curled an arm around his shoulder and sat down on his leg. Spot smirked subtly and looked her directly in the eye, his hand holding onto the small of her back.

"I got some more stuff in the back, just got imported this mornin'," she told him, speaking easily into his ear. "Sonny ain't even opened it yet."

Spot breathed a laugh and wrapped his arm around her body. The waitress giggled and Spot released his embrace, coming back with a shot glass in his hand. He threw his head back and let the golden liquor burn all the way to the pit of his stomach. The girl, willing and overly eager, poured him another glass and held it close to her body, which was smashed onto his.

"You wanna take another one?" she inquired dreamily.

Before Spot could answer, a hand snatched the shot glass quickly from the waitress. Emma gripped Spot's shoulder as she tossed the drink down her throat. Effortlessly, she grabbed the waitress' arm and yanked her off Spot's lap. The girl tumbled onto the floor and composed herself quickly, embarrassed. Not looking back, Emma pulled up a chair to the table and turned in Spot's direction.

"What's _that_ look for, doll?" he asked.

"Don't 'doll' me, Spot, why d'you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That!" She pointed to the waitress swimming back into the crowd. "That _thing_ I just saw, what the hell was that?"

"Nah, she's just drunk." He leaned back and placed his arms behind his head with a sigh. "Can't help it if the ladies love me, Em."

"Yeah, sure." She leaned over the table and yanked his hat down over his eyes forcefully, his head snapping down quickly.

With an annoyed grumble, Spot jumped up from his seat and leapt toward Emma, grabbing her by the waist and hoisting her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She kicked wildly and beat her fist against his back wildly.

"Spot Conlon, you put me down _right now_, I mean it!"

"Can't heah ya, sweetheart!" He spun around the room and shoved his way through the people until he got to the steps.

"Ugh! I hate you sometimes!" pouted Emma once she was set down. She crossed her arms over her chest immaturely and turned her head away.

"Ah, no ya don't." He grabbed her chin and shifted it so she faced him. "You couldn't get enough 'a me if ya tried."

Emma made an attempt to smack him in the face when he stopped her hand in midair by grabbing her wrist.

"Don't hit me. How many times I gotta tell ya that?"

"How many times I gotta tell you not to be so cocky?"

Spot rolled his eyes and let go of her wrist. He took a few steps down and grabbed two glasses of whiskey floating on tray amongst the crowd. He told her to drink up to cool down and he had a seat next to her. The two said nothing for a while, as Spot watched the ongoing fight and Emma took swigs of her drink. The Italian boxer began delivering a round of harsh punches at his German opponent, so much that the other boxer fell to the ground and raised his arm in the air in defeat. Spot clapped at his boy's victory.

"You know it didn't mean nothin', right, Em?" he asked suddenly when the cheers quieted.

Emma gulped down the last of her whiskey. "Yeah. I guess."

He leaned over and kissed her lovingly on the cheek. "You want in on the next fight?"

"I'm broke. I lost all 'a my money last Thursday when you told me to bet big on that English fella. You got poor judgment sometimes, Spot."

"What? I didn't tell ya…" Spot stammered and shook his head. "'Snot true…"

Emma rolled her eyes tiredly. "Who's fighting next anyway?"

Bolt shoved his way through the mass of men and kneeled on the steps before them with excitement. He reeked of hard liquor and in his sweaty hands were crinkles of dollar bills and coins. A drunken smile took over his face and he nodded his head with excitement.

"Good night fer fightin', ain't it!"

"Yeah, Bolt, how much ya got there?"

The newsie shoved the money into his pockets and shrugged. "Conlon, tomorrow's St. Patty's…so, you'se fightin' next, a'right?"

Spot let out an exasperated laugh. "No thanks, bud. Maybe tomorrow instead."

"No, you _gotta_ fight! Seriously, if you'se really my best friend, then you'll fight, a'right? So, do it!"

"What? How's that make sense?"

"'Cause I bet that guy ovah there I'd convince you ta do it! He got a lot money last time ya did it! It's just some otha street kid, scrawny, ain't big at all."

A round of cheering erupted from the center of the room and a large, meaty, tough-looking boy his age stepped into the circle. A mixture of applause and booing issued from the room.

"Scrawny, right, Bolt? Jesus…the kid'll probably eat you fer breakfast."

"Yeah, ya probably couldn't take 'im anyway…I mean, the guy I made a bet with bet you wouldn't anyway…"

Emma pressed her lips together and hid her face from laughter. Spot's jaw unhinged upon Bolt telling him this and immediately he was offended. With a round of curses, Spot stood straight up and yanked off his shirt. He chucked it in Bolt's face, threw his hat to the steps, and looped his key necklace around Emma.

"Wish me luck, baby."

He pecked her on the lips and took off into the crowd, his arm held high in the air by Bolt. Spot fed off the enthusiasm of the room and generated an ego so large it surpassed even his opponent. He strutted up to the fighter, his bare stomach barely touching his they were so close, and a smirk written all over his face. The opponent glared meanly into Spot's eyes, but Spot looked right back up at him with a cocky expression.

The bell dinged loudly. Spot squatted to dodge the first punch and immediately fired back with a round of clouts to the larger boy's stomach. The crowd whooped and hollered loudly, chanting in favor of their preferred fighter. Emma did not watch the fight and instead leaned back against the staircase. A waitress had brought around a full bottle of whiskey and Emma drank it down thirstily.

But while the room was alive with high spirits and energy, Emma cleared her mind to silence, recalling what her parents had talked to her about earlier that morning. She wrestled with the idea of discussing it with Spot yet. Philadelphia. _No, it was too early to tell him that, _she thought._ Let him enjoy things while he can_. Emma, the fighter, argued with the conscience she was fighting too hard. A tear came to her eye and refusing to acknowledge its presence, she knocked back a full glass of liquor. Her hand toyed with the key around her neck and though she ignored its presence as well, a knot lodged in her throat. _It's just too early_…


	10. St Patrick's Day

_Again, I'm so sorry for the wait! Enjoy this one!

* * *

_

**Part I, Chapter X**

**March 17, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

There were only a handful of days when Spot slept in. Holidays were most of them, and St. Patrick's Day was especially no exception. As Spot rolled onto his back, he opened his eyes to an empty and peaceful bunkroom. A smile of satisfaction spread across his lips. It was ten o'clock and the seventeen year-old newsboy had gotten nine hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. _Better than sex_, thought Spot. _Well, sometimes._

As Spot hopped to the floor and stretched good and hard, Oliver entered the bunkroom. His feet dragging the floor beneath him, Oliver had a weird, euphoric look on his face. The Brooklyn leader fell onto the mattress near Spot. His feet dangled off the edge and unsold papers dropped to the floor. He stared up at the bunk above him with the dopey look still on his face.

"Good night?" guessed Spot. He sat on the bed near him and lit up a cigar.

"I got no sleep. Opium room last night with…what's 'er name…Got no sleep."

"No sleep after smokin'? Jesus, what'd you guys do all night?"

Oliver smiled with his glazed eyes half open. He turned his head to the side and revealed small bruises What's 'er name had given him—love bites. "_All_ night. I mean, I'm sore."

Spot laughed with him. He took another cigar from his nightstand and tossed it to Oliver with pride. Oliver blew out the match and relaxed, his ankles crossed over the mattress and one arm tucked comfortably behind his head.

"Props ta you. I heard _nobody_ could get they'se hands on 'er," said Spot.

"I ain't nobody, Conlon." Oliver exhaled deeply. He sat up to face him as if telling Spot a secret. "An' get this…her brother's the leader 'a Thayer Street."

"You'se lyin'."

"Swear to God, Conlon!" He put his right hand over his heart and laughed dreamily. "Swear to God…"

"Then my hat goes off ta you."

"Well, you'se still with that one goil, right?"

"Oh. Yeah." Spot nodded with a complacent smile as he twirled his cigar between his thumb and index finger. "Yep, still with her."

Emma. Spot stopped spinning his fingers when it hit him that he was supposed to meet her for breakfast. Spot cringed and cursed to himself. It was already an hour after they agreed to meet. _But it's St. Patrick's Day_, he thought to himself. _She's gotta remembah I don't worry today_. Spot thought for a moment and shrugged it off. He would apologize, she would yell, they'd each go home, and he would see her the next day as if nothing had happened. Emma was all too predictable sometimes; time always worked against her.

"You'se goin' out tonight, ain't ya?" inquired Oliver.

Spot scoffed as if offended. "Oliver, _please_. I'm gettin' started heah in a few hours!"

Oliver laughed obnoxiously. "'Swhat I like ta heah, Conlon! Gimme a good hour 'a sleep an' I'll join ya. I'm gonna need some energy."

He rubbed out his cigar on the nightstand and rolled over. Within a few short moments, Oliver was sound asleep. Spot shook his head and made his way over to the showers. He ran through the events of the day in his mind, all of which included an endless supply of liquor or girls, all celebrating their heritage in high spirits. He would stop by to see Emma for a little while, though she would understand their evening would be cut short because of the celebration.

"It's a great day to be Irish, gentlemen!"

A gin-soaked old man toasted to the crowd of drunken, merry Irish immigrants in the basement of a pub in the Irish area of New York City. The people clunked their glasses together and downed the everlasting alcohol. Spot whipped his head back as he and Oliver slammed their umpteenth shot glass onto the table.

Spot's eyesight waned for a moment. "'S only six o'clock! And I'm…unbelievably drunk."

Oliver dug change from his pocket and slammed it on the table, motioning for a server. "God, I love you Irish wops. Sure know a good party."

Spot chuckled, paying no heed to the insult. It was St. Patrick's Day. He was drunk and happy. For the time being, life was perfect. Ireland was all around him, in the pub and outside. He was proud of his heritage that day as he watched the innocent parade through the streets and curly-haired, freckled children scamper through the city. He was even prouder once he and Oliver stepped foot into the pub and got _really_ Irish. He even thought he heard himself take up an accent.

The festivities lasted until Spot could hardly keep his head up. Oliver, who had always been able to hold his liquor better, kept ordering more and more rounds until Spot was flat broke and blacking out. A bouncy, heavily made-up girl had sat down next to him and Spot only acknowledged her presence in and out of consciousness. He felt her run her fingers across his check and hug him close to her chest.

"Wha' time 'sit?" slurred Spot.

The girl dug into his trouser pocket and pulled his watch. She looked at it and pressed it back into his pocket hard, waking him up significantly.

"Wait, what'd ya'say th' time was?"

"Nine thirty," she giggled. "But we don't have to worry 'bout that now."

"I gotta go."

Spot stood up, carelessly dropping the girl to the floor. His head lolled and he felt as if he had spun around a hundred times. He grabbed the table behind him and crashed back into his chair.

"Ya a'right there, Conlon?" Oliver patted him on the back.

"I gotta see Emma." Spot held his head to control the dizziness. "I want to see her."

"A'right, let's getcha outta heah."

Spot hardly remembered walking all the way from Manhattan back to Brooklyn. For all he knew, he could have been tossed into the back of a wagon and dropped onto the cobblestone. But he knew Oliver was with him the entire time; he used him as leverage for however they got there.

"This is the place, right Conlon?"

As he regained consciousness, Spot saw the sign on the building in front of him reading, Corwell Bakery. He nodded and dusted himself off. He made to straighten the tie he was not wearing and fastened the cap on his head. Oliver grabbed the back of his collar and dragged him up the fire escape up to Emma's bedroom.

Oliver tapped against the glass lightly and as he waited, composed Spot by picking his head up and smacking him in the face. Emma pulled back her curtain, an annoyed look on her face, and hesitated to open the window.

Turning around, Oliver smiled joyously and waved his hand energetically. He pointed to Spot and Emma nodded. With a sigh, she broke the barrier between the two.

"Heya Emma!"

"Hi Oliver."

"Got yer boy right heah, been talkin' 'bout ya all night."

"Okay. Bring 'im inside, I guess."

"Don't worry," said Oliver as he picked up Spot and hoisted him inside, "he won't make too much noise."

Emma said nothing and helped Spot to her bed. Without saying another word to Oliver, she shut the window and he leapt down the staircase.

"I love you Emmy."

Spot looked at her as deeply as he could while she took off his hat and shoes, sliding the suspenders from his hunched shoulders. She made no reaction to what he said to her and continued to get him ready for bed.

Spot knew Emma didn't respond to him. He grabbed her hips and stopped her from moving. Though all she did was sigh and look away, Spot pulled her on top of him as he landed back on the bed.

"I really do, Em! I love you."

Emma groaned and sniffled. She buried his face into his shoulder as she was pinned against him, her whole body forced into his embrace. Spot's hand flew to her cheeks and he positioned her face in front of his. She was crying.

"Em, what's wrong…"

She shook her head, tilting her face downward to hide it. Tears streamed from her eyes into his hands.

"Tell me," he urged.

"Nothing, Spot." Emma got up and rolled onto her side of the bed. "Just go to sleep."


	11. The Morning After

**Part I, Chapter XI**

**March 18, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Emma spent the better half of a late morning doing mindless chores around the apartment. She dunked a garment into the wash basin and effortlessly took a bar of soap to it. Her puffy, red eyes stared blankly in front of her. She moved robotically and hadn't even bothered to roll up her shirt sleeves while doing laundry. Her mind kept replaying the conversation in her head from two days ago:

_"Emma, your father and I have given this a lot of thought."_

_"What's going on? What happened?"_

_Edward and Helen looked at each other anxiously._

_"We've been offered building space in Philadelphia. We're extending our business! Not a lot of places around here get this chance, but my brothers helped us make it happen."_

_"Oh." Emma rested easy for a moment. "Well, that's good news, I guess. Who's running it? Uncle Richard lives there, is he taking care of it?"_

_Helen looked at her husband again cautiously. "Not exactly. It's important we get this off the ground successfully…So, your father and I have decided to manage it. One of the cooks is being promoted here, so they'll take care of this one while we're there."_

_"What?" shouted Emma. She jumped to her feet angrily. "How could you—What, you want me to just pack up and leave with you? I won't do it!"_

_"Sit down, Emma! It's not like we're moving out West, we're just going to Philadelphia. It isn't that far and we'll be living with my family," reprimanded Helen._

_"I don't care, it's not Brooklyn! It's not New York! And I won't sit down!"_

_"Emma, listen, it'll only be for a few years. We just need to make sure it gets up and running."_

_"So, _you_ go! I couldn't care less about this stupid bakery!"_

_"Watch your—"_

_"Ya know, I have a life here, you can't expect me to just leave it all behind!"_

_Edward rose from his chair angrily. His dark, angry eyes buried into hers and Emma sat down at once. She closed her mouth and glared up at him._

_"Emma, that boy is not your life. We are still your parents, your family should be more important to you than him. We need all the support we can get, even if we do have relatives in Philadelphia. You're going with us and I don't want to hear another word about it."_

_"But—"_

_"What did I say?"_

_Her bottom lip quivering, Emma rose from her chair and hurried into her room. She slammed the door forcefully and leaned her back against it._

_"And tell Spot he needs to make a quicker exit next time!" she heard her father say from the kitchen._

Presently, Emma was ringing out one of her father's shirts. As she stared at the sopping wet, freshly cleaned garment, she considered taking all of his laundry and hurling it out the window. _How dare they treat me like such a child, telling me what to do! _Instead, she remembered how angry her father can get, and clipped it onto the clothes line.

She felt a lump form in her throat when her eyes flew to her bedroom door. Spot was still asleep, even at eleven in the morning. He had passed out cold from the night before and put up too much of a fight to get up at dawn. She felt as though she should be angry as hell with him for showing up practically unconscious. But considering the circumstances, he could have done anything last night and she would dismiss it; she didn't have time to argue with him anymore.

She picked up another garment and scrubbed it hard against the washboard.

Around noon, Spot's eyes opened heavily. He stared for a long time at the sideways wall in front of him before he realized he was at Emma's house. Slowly, so not to lose the contents of last night's festivities, he rolled over and saw an empty bed space. Clutching his stomach, he sat up and turned to the side of the bed.

"Goddamn…"

Spot hadn't been this hung-over in a long time. He hardly remembered seeing Emma or even leaving with Oliver. He remembered crawling from pub to pub drinking himself into oblivion. He remembered when the alcohol hit him and he remembered vaguely shoving a girl off his lap. Everything else was anybody's guess.

The door opened and Emma stood in the doorway. They looked at each other silently for a moment.

"Hi," greeted Spot weakly.

"Hi."

Emma walked over and started making her side of the bed. Without a word, she fluffed the pillows and smoothed out the sheets. Spot wanted to say something, _anything_, but he couldn't find the words—he also thought if he spoke, he would vomit all over the place. Instead he held his stomach and leaned over slightly.

"You gonna be sick?" asked Emma.

Spot shook his head, and even that hurt. "No."

Emma left the room and Spot clutched his throbbing head. Pangs of guilt formed in his stomach; he could distinguish that well from the alcohol. He knew Emma was angry with him and, whether or not he chose to admit it, she had a right to be. He knew he should probably apologize, but he was never good at that, so he never did. Emma made her way back into the room, this time with a small bucket in her hand which she placed in front of Spot.

"Em—"

"We need to talk," said Emma at the same time. "Sorry. We just—I really need to talk to you. It's kinda important."

Spot felt another pang. Yet this time he felt the alcohol too. He tried his best to keep it together, but—

"_Shit_."

Spot bent forward and hurled what felt like all of his organs into the bucket. He squeezed his eyes closed and felt them water. His knuckles turned white and felt like they were splitting in half from the tight grip he had on the bucket's rim. Emma sat beside him and rubbed his back. Another pang of guilt—and another lurch into the bucket.

Moments later, Spot caught his breath. Emma stopped rubbing his back.

"I'll get you some water and a towel."

Spot kept his eyes closed and pushed the bucket from his face. Suddenly, a round of taps came to the bedroom window. Spot looked up and saw Bolt sitting outside the fire escape. Gradually, very curious, he walked over and opened the window. Bolt's face was anxious and worried.

"What the hell?"

"Conlon, ya gotta get back to the lodging house," he urged.

"It can't wait? I just puked up my fuckin' liver…"

"No," panted Bolt. "It's about Oliver."

"What happened?"

Bolt hesitated and his breath picked up. "He's…hurt. Real bad. It happened just last night when he got home."

"Bolt, tell me what happened!" Spot's nerves shook to his core and his mind raced.

"I'll tell ya that on the way, ya just gotta hurry, okay?"

"Gimme two seconds."

Refusing to acknowledge how sick he felt, Spot shoved his feet into his shoes and hurried out the window. Emma returned just as he crawled through, and he hesitated.

"I'll see ya tonight, somethin' came up at the lodging house! I'll see ya later, I promise!"

"But we didn't get to—"

_Slam_.

"Talk."

Emma sighed and set the glass of water onto the dresser. She closed her eyes and slid her back down the wall. All she could hear in her mind was her father telling her, "Emma, that boy is not your life…" Her shoulders rolled forward and, genuinely hurt, she sobbed uncontrollably, and she hated the person who made her that way.


	12. No Right Time for Goodbye

**Part I, Chapter XII**

**March 19, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

There never really is a right time to say goodbye. Spot Conlon knew that for a fact. Goodbyes are hard. They change a person's perspective and can be strong enough to change a person's life. Spot was never good at goodbyes; to a certain degree he never truly believed enough in something to have it slip through his grasp, and he never believed he could be changed from a goodbye. He thought he was stronger than that.

"Conlon, get up. Get some sleep."

Raising his head, Spot felt Bolt's hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

"I'm fine. You can go if ya want, but I'm fine right heah."

Bolt stayed a moment longer and returned to his bunk to sleep. In fact, the entire bunkroom was sleeping. Even Chase was asleep right behind him. He checked his pocket watch: two-thirty in the morning. Spot couldn't sleep, at least not tonight. Standing up, he arched his back slowly, his spine cracking and popping from sitting in the same wooden chair for hours. He positioned his seat so his ankle crossed the other on top of the nightstand next to Oliver's bed.

The Brooklyn leader's chest rose up and down slowly. The bandages wrapped tightly around Oliver's body made him look like a mummy, at least from the neck down. His face was purple and bruised, beaten beyond recognition. A small, red bloodstain soaked through the bandages on his forehead where a knife had slit the base of his hairline making a deep, clean-cut incision.

Spot swallowed hard and looked away. He had been watching Oliver for too long that day to doubt any reality about what had happened the previous night. When he came back from Emma's, he was met with the entire bunkroom silently waiting in the lobby of the lodging house, and Chase was talking with the doctor upstairs. Oliver had been brutally attacked on his way from dropping Spot off at Emma's house, and he had been left at the lodging house door an hour before dawn.

It was scary how things could change so drastically in such a short amount of time. Oliver had been well when he was out with Spot; hours later, he was almost dead.

Glancing at Oliver from the corner of his eyes, Spot thought he saw his chest was still for too long. He felt his heart jump, pulsating, to his throat until Oliver's chest began moving again. Spot covered his hand over his eyes exhaustedly and clenched his jaw.

"You know who did it, don'tcha?"

Spot swallowed the lump in his throat again to answer Chase, who lay in the bunk to his left, "Yes."

Chase gradually sat up against his pillow. He folded his arms across his chest and stared ahead of him as he spoke. In fact, Chase and Spot made little eye contact for the entire conversation.

"Figures. Lord knows Oliver don't say a word ta me about nothin'," said Chase flatly.

"I mean, I'm positive I know who it is," added Spot, disregarding Chase's comment.

"Yeah? Who?"

"Thayer Street. Oliver was screwin' his sister."

Chase's shoulders fell to their haunches and his head dropped. He rubbed his forehead and temples vigorously, and placed his hand in his chin in thought.

"What're ya gonna do about it?" inquired Spot.

"Whadda ya mean? We'se gonna handle it, that's what we're gonna do. You an' I are gonna take care of it tomorrow night. We ain't tellin' no one what we're doin', we're just gonna do it. So don't go gabbin' 'bout it, a'right? I don't wanna make my last soakin' a big deal."

Spot hesitated, wondering if he had heard him correctly. "Last soakin'?"

"Yeah. Soakin', attack, whatevah ya wanna call it. I know a guy's gotta go out with a bang, er go down in a blaze 'a glory around heah, er some shit like that, but not me. My time's up heah. I got a train ticket fer next week."

"I'm sorry ta heah that."

Chase snorted and lay back down. "No, ya ain't, Conlon. If there's anythin' I like about you it's yer brute honesty."

Spot sighed. As Chase fell back asleep, Spot felt his eyelids weaken. He let his head fall to his shoulder. Taking a few seconds to make sure Oliver was still alive and breathing, he let his eyes flutter close and let his mind rest. According to Chase, he was going to need all the energy he could get tomorrow.


	13. God Help Me

_Aren't you glad I updated so quickly? Yes, I am too. This is my favorite chapter so far and it's been a long time coming. Enjoy!

* * *

_

**Part I, Chapter XIII**

**March 20, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Spot had never been a religious person. All those lunatics reading salvation through a book and a preacher never set well with him. He didn't believe in salvation from a higher power. No, Spot relied on his own self to make miracles happen (if you call winning seventeen straight boxing matches a miracle). You may have thought Spot was a devout Catholic because of his Irish heritage, but nothing could be further from the truth. To Spot, there was no God.

Hell, even if he did believe, God was dead in Brooklyn. The trash of thrown-out food, urine, and dank, old papers were enough for Spot to realize that truth. Presently his foot plunged into a chilling, oily puddle on the ground beneath him, splashing up inside his pant leg, drenching a small knife in its sheath.

"It's this way, Conlon," whispered Chase. Motioning down the narrow, repulsive alley, the older boy treaded carefully into the dripping, humid shortcut to Thayer Street.

"The things I do for Brooklyn…" mumbled Spot to himself.

He bravely stepped across a puddle and was greeted with the putrid smell of the urban underworld of New York City. Sure, he had been in nasty places before now, but never had an alley produced such vile odor that he was sick to his stomach. The walls, now the darkest shade of black because of the nighttime, seemed to close in on intruders and interrupt their ventures. In every nook and cranny, the familiar sound of _drip drop, drip drop _echoed throughout the passage.

"Jus' hold yer breath," advised Chase with puffed up lungs, "and don't touch nothin'."

After dodging piles of human waste, a few dead rats, and a passed-out drunkard reeking of whiskey and beer, Chase and Spot caught their breaths on the sidewalk. This side of town was more dangerous than what Spot was accustomed. There was more booze, more filth, more crime, and no police to try and stop it. Spot remembered this fact as he watched a scrawny young man held without mercy at the entrance of an alleyway across the street.

"God, help me!" cried the man at knifepoint.

"God ain't heah tonight, sonny!" replied one of his attackers as he flattened the smooth side of the blade across his cheekbone. His partner in crime searched vigorously through the man's clothing, turning out his pockets and emptying the coins inside them.

"Please! I have a family!"

"Seems ta be it, Briggs," stated the partner, collecting the young man's money from the ground.

"Then get back to 'em before we do!" responded Briggs. He turned his blade and quickly sliced the young man's flesh.

With a holler of pain, he clutched his face, his hands turning scarlet red immediately, and limped across the street. Spot stepped back and let the young man, who was not strong enough to hold his own, pass by. The newsie paused and gulped down his breath.

"Hey," said Chase, smacking his shoulder, "don't lose ya nerve. Foist thing ya gotta know, don't evah lose ya nerve, ya got that?"

Spot nodded. "Yeah. I got that."

It was near midnight by the time they made it to Thayer Street's territory. Spot recognized Mama's diner approaching on his left. At the corner, Chase turned right and briskly made his way across the street. Close behind, Spot decided not to ask where they were headed; it became apparent once Chase positioned his back against a brick building and motioned for Spot to do the same.

"Marble, the one ya said probably soaked Oliver," whispered Chase, peering quickly around the corner and back again, "he sleeps at the end 'a this alley comin' up on the otha side. As far as I know, he don't get too many visitors this time 'a night. The whole gang scatters all ovah the place ta sleep, go nowhere's else ta go…"

Spot reached behind him and pulled the cold pistol from his pocket with a clammy, sweating hand. Chase moved slowly around the corner, scanning the darkness with every step he made. Spot looked around him as well; he couldn't make out anything. The clouds covered the moon and there wasn't a street lamp in sight.

"I'm gonna go in foist. Cover me, a'right, Conlon?"

Spot nodded dutifully. "A'right."

As Chase inched his way closer to the alley, Spot gripped his gun tighter than ever. In the darkness of that mere sidewalk, Spot tried to follow the most important advice Chase would ever give him: don't lose your nerve. His heart raced so fast he worried it would crack a rib, and a cold bead of sweat slicked his forehead. As he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he understood why some people believed in a higher power for strength.

He looked in front of him and as the impending alley drew closer, he felt the pit of his stomach rake with terror, and he heard himself say, "God, help me."

"_Agh_!"

Within a split second, Chase stumbled to the brick wall, clutching his arm in agony.

Spot had heard it. He hadn't been quick enough. There had been the sound of a cocked pistol to his right and it grazed Chase's arm and ricocheted off the brick building. Spot extended his arm, stepping in front of Chase to protect him. He moved his arm around aimlessly into the blackness in front of him until the shooter knocked the gun from his hand in front of him and shoved him to the ground.

"What're doin' 'round heah, Chase, huh?"

The boy excused Spot and grabbed Chase by the collar, hoisting him to his feet. Chase, without answering, grabbed the gun in his pocket and hurled the bottom of it to the boy's mouth, sending him reeling backward. Chase knelt into the boy's stomach to trap him on the ground and gripped his chin tightly, blood spilling onto his white-knuckled fingers. In his other hand was his pistol lodged underneath the boy's chin.

"Fuckin' with Brooklyn, are ya? _Again_, Jimmy? How many times we gotta warn you bastards?"

Jimmy writhed on the ground relentlessly, even with impending death touching his face. He swung his arm out to grab Chase. Chase knocked it aside and sent a warning shot into the air above him, silencing Jimmy for a moment.

"Conlon! Go!" commanded Chase, nodding emphatically toward the alleyway.

Spot came back to his senses and picked up his gun from the ground. He jumped toward the alleyway entrance and stared down the tunnel of dark, humid space.

"Marble!" shouted Jimmy with a muffled voice.

"Shut yer goddamn mouth!" Chase knocked Jimmy's head into the ground, a quiet crack reverberating. "Conlon, do it!"

"I can't see nothin'!" shouted Spot.

He looked up, down, and in every hidden place without venturing into the alleyway entirely. All he could hear was the uneasy pace of his breath and the assault behind him. Then there was movement. Spot could make out two feet scrambling to hide themselves behind a stack of broken crate boxes. Spot walked forward and knocked them down.

Marble, a stout, pudgy young man was revealed unwillingly in the darkness. He stared at Spot with huge, fearful, white eyes before raising his arms in defeat. Even in the pitch black, Spot swore he could feel how frightened Marble was. Spot raised his chin and turned slightly as if not wanting to see his victim.

"Please," blubbered the Thayer Street leader, ignorant to who his attacker was. "I got no money, I ain't got a home! An' I'm fresh outta bullets. If it's a fight ya want, at least gimme that kinda respect!"

Spot wanted to grant him mercy but he couldn't bring himself to do it. This boy had beaten Oliver to nearly an inch of his life. He deserved to die like the coward he was now like the coward he had been when he attacked Oliver. But Marble had no idea who he was. Spot would remain a mystery to him. Was he going to give him that respect?

"Conlon!" screamed Chase.

"Please!" plead Marble.

"No," answered Spot coldly, cocking the gun.

"God, _please_!"

Spot pulled the trigger. He heard nothing but echoes of silence and the lifeless body of Marble, the leader of Thayer Street, falling to the ground. Time slowed down, he caught his breath, and stepped out of the alley, mute, silenced.

Chase released Jimmy as he struggled beneath him. Spot watched as Chase let the boy run fifty feet away from them, raise his arm quickly, and shoot Jimmy dead in the back. Spot couldn't see what happened. He only heard Jimmy hit the ground.

"Was that…" panted Spot.

"Yeah, it was necessary Conlon," interrupted Chase defensively. "He woulda gone back, told his boys, an' started a war with you'se guys. Why d'ya think I told ya not to tell anyone we was doin' this tonight?"

He turned to Spot, out of breath, and clutched the spot on his arm that had been grazed with Jimmy's bullet. "I just saved ya life, Conlon. Nobody's gonna know it was us who did it. Hell, Marble didn't even know it who ya were."

Spot came back to his breath. In a way, he had to thank Chase for covering for him; had they not just taken care of Thayer Street anonymously, Chase would have left Spot the lodging house with a war on his hands. For the first time, Spot respected him.

The walk back toward the lodging house seemed shorter, like it did not take as much time to get there. Spot stood in front of it before entering. It looked smaller than he last saw it, and Brooklyn seemed larger than anything he had seen in his entire life. Chase was leaving this all to him.

The moment of clarity was overwhelming, and Spot felt the same feeling in the pit of his stomach. He took a step back and clutched his nervous heart.

"My _god_…"


	14. So Long, Conlon

_Let's hear it for transition chapters! A quickie just for you...winkwink._

**Part I, Chapter XIV**

**March 22, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

If this were a testament to his future leadership, Spot was taking a beating.

"I'm sorry boys," said the doctor. "He's passed."

Spot couldn't bring himself to believe it. From the corners of his eyes he saw the still, motionless Oliver resting lifeless on the bed across the room. The doctor had told them he was dead, but Spot couldn't understand the loss.

As he and Bolt stood at the doorway, the doctor spoke with Chase, whose face was void of emotion, about getting rid of Oliver's body and cleaning up the bunk space. Spot felt his hands dampen with cold sweat. Could he cry? Yes, he could. But he wasn't going to. He was Brooklyn now; he was stronger than that.

"I'm so sorry," said the doctor, patting Spot's shoulder as he left. His eyes, tucked behind a pair of half-circle glasses, twinkled lightly with tears. "I wish there was more we could do."

It was at that moment Spot learned how to control emotion. He swallowed the lump in his throat, the cautionary sign of your body telling you it's about to cry. He knocked his head back in a nod as if knocking back tears in his eyes.

"Thanks fer yer help," he responded sternly. Briefly wiping his palms against the back of his pants, he shook the doctor's hand professionally and exhaled.

The caretaker of the lodging house stepped toward Oliver's bed and pulled the sheet over his lifeless body. Behind Spot, Bolt make a sudden upchuck noise as if throwing up. He swiftly held his stomach and covered his mouth with a clenched fist.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. "I'm…"

"It's fine," Spot cut off. "Yer fine, Bolt."

Spot willed himself to watch. Chase stood stoically at the end of the bunk, his eyes unmoving and his arms folded tightly over his chest. What was he doing just staring at Oliver? Was he trying to make his peace with him? With God? Trying to understand the situation or just simply saying goodbye?

"Yeah, jus' take 'im downstairs. Doctor's downstairs. He'll take care of it," Chase said to the caretaker.

"Can't take 'im downstairs now, Chase," spoke Bolt. "Whole lodgin' house is down there."

Chase looked at Spot expectantly, who was unsure what to do. With an exhausted laugh beneath his breath, Chase checked the time on his pocket watch. He looked at Spot again and said, "Boys is waitin' fer somethin'. Aftanoon edition ain't gonna sell itself, Spot."

He eyed him with confidence. Spot nodded. He took one final look at Oliver and another final look at Chase as well; Chase's bags were packed near his bunk and he could see corner of a train ticket sticking out of his pocket. Chase knew Spot had put the two together and realized it was the last time he would talk to him.

"So long, Conlon."


	15. Promises, Promises

**Part I, Chapter XV**

**March 25, 2006**

**Brooklyn, New York**

It was a routine Emma had become accustomed to doing. Sitting in an empty restaurant booth, twirling the salt and pepper shakers carelessly between her fingers, she had gotten used to Spot becoming a no-show for getting together. In the past week, they had planned four dates, of which he showed up for none.

"I'll make it up ta you," he'd swear every time she would reprimand him. "I promise."

"No, Spot, I'm tired of this!" she'd reply, breaking from his embrace. "We really need to talk and you're just not making time for me!"

"Tomorrow night. You an' me'll have dinner tomorrow night at Sonny's."

"That's what you said last night, Spot."

"Well, I mean it this time, dammit!"

She had stared him down, searching his eyes for sincerity. Her lips had pursed as her arms had folded against her chest tighter.

"Look, I've just been real busy…an' I can't talk now 'cause I gotta get back to the lodging house. I gotta a lotta stuff to do, I'll explain later."

Emma had agreed to dinner tonight, allowed him to kiss her cheek as he left, and she stomped away her frustrations from him as she made her way home. Presently, she noticed the grip on the salt shaker in her right palm had gotten significantly tighter as she replayed the conversation in her mind. She glanced at the clock: seven forty-five, one hour past their scheduled time.

Her eyes panned the half-empty restaurant. It was rather quiet tonight, but then again, it was a Sunday—she had gotten good at judging crowd sizes after waiting on Spot so many times. She noticed a young waitress no older than she, coming out of the kitchen carrying an armful of dinner plates. A moment later, the girl had dropped all four plates of food, crashing to the floor. She must have been new.

"Anything else I can get for you, miss?" asked the server, interrupting the scene behind him.

Emma shook her head low, paying no attention to the full bowl of soup on her table. "No, thank you."

Emma sighed and returned her mind to the situation at hand. She thought to herself, _how wasteful I must be of my own life that I wait around for him_. A sudden urge of angry passion rushed through her body. She slammed the salt shaker down onto the table and quickly sat up straight.

"I'm _done_," she said to herself strongly.

Perhaps—well, it most definitely _was_—her stubbornness getting the better of her, for she found her mind racing with mental fortitude and dignity. _I'm not putting up with Spot Conlon's shit any longer! I've told him time and time again I need to talk with him, and does he listen? Not at all! _

Her mind's strength running away with her, she threw down the money for her dinner and stormed out of the restaurant with her head held extremely high. Never had Spot infuriated her so much—she even left her sweater sitting in the booth and it was forty degrees outside—and she wasn't going to stand for it anymore. In her mind, if Spot needed to talk, he could make time for her, and hopefully it would happen before she left for Philadelphia. _If not_, Emma thought, and she even paused slightly in her tracks, _his loss_.

* * *

At eight o'clock that evening, out of breath and eyes watering from sprinting into the wind, Spot arrived at Sonny's. His hands pressing atop his knees, he caught his breath and calmed his speeding heart. The restaurant was half-full, he had noticed, and as he looked around the room, there was no Emma.

_Seven forty-five, right_? Spot checked the clock on the wall. Maybe it was earlier than that. He couldn't remember for the life of him what time Emma had told him to meet. Scoping out a booth in the back, he sat down just in case she was running late.

"Soup of the day's garden vegetable," said a waitress flatly and hurriedly, tossing a menu onto the table.

"Oh, uh, thanks."

"Name's Elizabeth, I'll be takin' care 'a you, and go easy on me 'cause it's my first day," she continued robotically, as if she had been repeating it over and over.

"A'right."

As time passed, Spot got to thinking that maybe he really had misheard Emma. It was almost eight thirty, and she was hardly ever late. He looked at the crumbles of a roll and the empty plate sitting pathetically on the table before him. He barely remembered even eating; he had tried recalling his conversation with Emma so many times he didn't even notice the food was gone. He had been so busy with dealing with Brooklyn as well he didn't even realize he had eaten a meal! How in the world could he expect himself to remember something as little as dinner?

"Ugh, what a _day_…"

Interrupting his thought process, Elizabeth plopped down across from him and let her head fall to her shoulder. "I'm sorry, mind if I just rest a bit b'fore my boss sees me?"

"Yeah, sure," replied Spot, finding a slight connection with the girl. "I know how ya feel."

"Y'mean your arms are sore from carrying plates all day, too?" she asked sarcastically. Her eyes widened for emphasis, even at her point of exhaustion.

Spot breathed a laugh. "Not exactly…but I know what yer goin' through, first day, new job."

"Oh, _thank you_." Elizabeth's hand felt on top of his as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "_Some_body understands."

A moment of hesitation found Spot staring at the situation before him. He stared at Elizabeth resting one hand atop his while the other propped up the weight of her head on the table. He felt a connection with her, even in its seemingly innocence and comfort.

"Elizabeth, d'ya wanna get us two cups 'a coffee?" asked Spot. He slipped his hand from underneath hers, and instead took her fingers in his grasp.

The waitress looked up from the table into his eyes, thankful and charmed by his baby blues and subtle smile. "Sure."

As Elizabeth got up, she paused and turned around. "I'm not exactly s'posed to do this…well, I could prob'ly get _arrested_, actually…but Sonny's got some liquor in the basement and no one's down there tonight. Y'want some 'a that instead?"

* * *

It wasn't until Emma had reached her home until she realized she had forgotten her sweater at Sonny's. Her passionate anger had quickened her pace, letting her forget that it was still almost freezing outside. On any other occasion, she would have forgone the sweater, returned the next day to Sonny's and ask the manager about a missing item. But this night, so enraged and fired up, she turned in an instant and marched all the way back to the diner.

"Can't treat _me_ like that, who does he think he _is_?" muttered Emma to herself, still thinking about Spot. "_Ugh_!"

Several minutes later, Emma rounded the street corner on which Sonny's was located. As she walked closer, she saw two young people exit quickly from the back door. The boy looked all too familiar and Emma stopped in her tracks.

"Okay, _shh_!"

"You'se gonna get fired fer this and it's only yer first day," laughed the boy.

Emma took three steps forward. _Was this girl kidding?_ thought Emma. If she could see her from this far away, there was no point in her trying to be quiet.

"God, it's freezin' out heah," stated the boy as they walked around of the restaurant.

She watched closely as the girl grabbed the boy by the hand.

"Oh, yer hands are warm," said the boy. "That helps."

The girl turned around and, in the glare of the restaurant's lights from inside, Emma saw the new waitress she had seen earlier flash the boy a smile.

"Just don' tell Sonny, promise?" asked the girl.

"Yeah…" said the boy. He glanced around him quickly and Emma felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach.

"…I promise."

Emma's mouth fell open as she watched Spot follow the waitress down the staircase to the basement of Sonny's, where the owner occasionally ran a speakeasy full of liquor, and where she remembered pulling a barmaid from Spot's lap just a few weeks ago.

Suddenly Emma became very aware of the freezing temperature outside—the wind whipped her hair around and froze her to the bone. She would have stepped forward and continued to Sonny's to retrieve her sweater, but she couldn't. She could barely even move.


	16. Fight

**Part I, Chapter XVI**

**March 27, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Spot cleared the deck of cards from the barrel between himself and Bolt. He had been losing so far, getting unlucky with almost every hand he was dealt. Suspicion made him think his friend, the only other player, had been cheating. Bolt did nothing but clear his throat and look off onto the docks around them.

"Spot, some kid just busted my damn lip," said a seven-year old newsie running up towards Spot and Bolt. He jutted his chin up to reveal his lower lip swollen and bloody, a nasty cut bleeding at the corner of his mouth.

"Where's this kid from?" asked Spot, eyeing the kid's wound.

"Uptown." The boy raised his arm and ran his shirt sleeve along his lip, the fabric smeared with blood.

"They still heah?"

"Think so."

"Then go show 'em not ta mess with Brooklyn." Spot punched the boy's shoulder lightly. "An' when ya fight 'em, make sure ta cover yer face with one fist. Got it?"

"Got it." The boy, a grimace growing fierce on his face, turned quickly on his heels and ran in the same direction he arrived.

"Glad the kid's got some fight in 'im. Makes me proud. A'right. I gotta go find Emma," said Spot, a hint of obligation in his voice, as he laid down his cards and got up from the crate box chair. "Haven't seen 'er in a while, which means she's probably mad at me. Again."

"What'd ya do this time?" queried Bolt.

"What _haven't_ I done, is more like it. She's been ignorin' me fer the longest time now and I'm sick of it. I told her I got more things ta do now that Oliver and Chase is gone, I don't see why she can't deal with it."

"Looks like _you'se_ got some fight in ya, too, Conlon. Best 'a luck."

Ten minutes later found Spot arriving at the bakery. Mr. Corwell spoke with a customer behind the counter. Briefly he looked at Spot and his dark eyes almost pierced Spot as he did so. The Brooklyn boy was taken aback for a moment, until Emma entered the lobby. He turned around at the sound of the small bell above the doorway and was greeted with the blankest look he had ever received from her.

"Hey stranger," he said lightheartedly.

After a moment, Emma simply said, "Hey," and made her way upstairs without eye contact.

Spot felt his impatience getting the better of him. He clenched his fists at his sides and closed his eyes, summoning up self-control. Eventually he turned around and, avoiding Mr. Corwell's stare, walked upstairs. Just as Emma turned to close the apartment door, Spot grabbed hold of it with his fingers and pried it open.

"Can we talk?" asked Spot adamantly.

"No." Emma pushed his chest backward out of the doorway, but Spot in return grabbed her wrist and opened the door completely.

"Yes. Emma, we need to talk." Spot gripped her shoulders and tried looking into her eyes, though she only stared at the floor. He could feel a fight in her rising.

Lowly, she responded, "I don't wanna talk to you."

Spot let go. "So, you'se mad at me 'cause I haven't been able ta make it ta dinner? That's it? Emma, I told you I been busy. Jesus…"

Emma snapped her head forward with an angry expression taking over her face. "Yeah, Spot, that's it. I'm angry about a few lousy meals!"

"You're bein' completely—"

"What? What, Spot? I'm being what? Ridiculous? Unreasonable?"

"I can't deal with this right now," interrupted Spot as he turned to leave. "You _are _ridiculous and unreasonable and completely selfish!"

"How dare you sit there and tell me I'm being selfish! Next time you do that, take a look at what you're doin' to _me_!" shouted Emma, pushing him out the door.

Spot turned in an instant and grabbed her wrists. "Don't shove me, Em! Stop doin' that! I'm sick 'a you always hitting me and shoving me around."

"Don't you ever tell me what to do, Spot! I'm sick of what you do to me and tellin' me what to do and I don't want to talk to you ever again!"

"Fine! I'm glad we're endin' it this way, then! I don't wanna talk ta you again either!"

Spot slammed the door behind him and walked adamantly down the steps. He stormed out of the bakery, paying no attention to Mr. Corwell or any other customer in the lobby. He tightened the gray cap on his head and felt his legs burn from walking so fast. There was still fury racing through his body; the fight in him wouldn't calm down. (That's the thing about having that trait—you always seem to be struggling against something.) His mind spun with the recollection of what had happened, thinking of Emma as the most unreasonable girl he had ever met and chastising himself for getting involved with her.

In a fit of rage, he grabbed the key necklace he hadn't taken off since Emma had given it to him almost four years ago, and yanked it from his neck. He turned and hurled the key high above him and watched it land at the doorsteps of the bakery. Then, without a second glance, he turned his back to the building and marched straight home.


	17. Clarity

**Part I, Chapter XVII**

**April 2, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Mr. and Mrs. Corwell had noticed the rapid change in Emma within the past week. She had gone from silent and upset, to confused and miserable, and presently to enraged and vindictive. The daily chores had been carried out as usual but with much more vigor and speed. (She was incredibly efficient when she was angry). Now she had been pacing up and down the stairs carting crate boxes into her bedroom for the move. At nine p.m., Mr. Corwell gripped the handle of his coffee mug and turned to Mrs. Corwell.

"I don't appreciate this anger at all, Helen," he said, concerned, as they sat in the kitchen. "This had better not be directed at us because we're moving."

"No, Edward, I really don't think it is. She hasn't snapped at me personally and I've caught her scoffing at herself several times." Mrs. Corwell craned her head back and looked at Emma moving quickly around her bedroom; a random grunt came from within. "She's doing it right now. It's like she's replaying something in her mind."

Mr. Corwell took a sip of her coffee. "Could it be Spot? D'you think he had anything to do with this?"

Mrs. Corwell sighed. "I think he's got _every_thing to do with this."

In her bedroom, Emma stopped for a moment and looked around. Almost everything had been packed already—her nice clothes were pressed and folded in a suitcase; underneath the bed had been cleared out completely; the closet was empty, dusted and cleaned spotless; there were no more personal items in the nightstand, including the sandy books in the drawer which hadn't been moved since they had been placed there. Everything was put away and it was all prepared for the movers to take to Philadelphia. The thing was, she still had to live in this bedroom for another eight days.

"Well! You've certainly cleaned house, haven't you?" commented Mrs. Corwell at the entryway.

Emma stared at her. "Yes. I'm getting it done so I don't have to worry later."

"Good idea." Casually, Mrs. Corwell picked up one full box and moved it closer toward the wall. "Just helping you make a walkway."

"I don't need a walkway. I just need to get from my bed to the door. That's it," said Emma quickly. She snapped her head to the window and recalled the many times Spot had sneaked through it; he kissed her for the first time on the fire escape. Immediately preceding that thought was the memory of him stumbling in drunk and almost unconscious.

"No. A walkway's good. Stack the boxes up over the window," said Emma.

"The window?" asked Mrs. Corwell puzzled.

Emma stared at her and responded flatly, "I don't need to use it."

Mrs. Corwell nodded and placed one box underneath the windowsill, assuming more would be stacked on top of it. Emma followed suit and Mrs. Corwell took a seat on the bed, observing her daughter's behavior.

"So, your room seems to be all ready to move. How 'bout you? You ready?" She gave an oblivious, unassuming smile.

"Yes, I'm more than ready. I'd like to get out of here."

"Why's that? You were born down the street, you've lived here your entire life."

"Because change is good. It's healthy and everyone deserves a fresh start. Don't you think so, mother?"

Mrs. Corwell nodded in agreement, maintaining her ignorance to the underlying issue. "That's a good way of looking at it. I'm glad you're seeing this move as a positive, not so much as a negative anymore…"

Emma emptied one box full of items into another, hoping to compress and make more room. The objects clattered loudly and she acted as though the noise didn't bother her.

"You're going to meet a lot of new people there. Of course, your cousins will be there and they're mostly your age. I'm sure they have some lovely people for you to meet as well, maybe even a nice boy."

Another box emptied into another, a powerful jolt behind it. Emma was moving faster now, using more force to control the objects within the box. She smashed everything down into one crate and stacked it on top of the other, forming a barrier between the window and her bedroom.

"Emma, did you tell Spot you're leaving?"

"Why does it matter?!" responded Emma angrily. She stormed out of the bedroom, her boots stomping against the floorboards loudly. She returned a moment later with dry clothes in a laundry basket.

"It wouldn't change things," said Emma. "We're not speaking. I'm still mad at him and we're over for good. I'm sick of his arrogance and stubbornness. I don't need to say bye to him, there isn't anything to say bye to. He's different now."

"Oh. Okay." Mrs. Corwell remained calm and oblivious. "Do you need help?"

Emma scooted over and made room for her mother. They folded the clothes silently and efficiently. Mrs. Corwell's pile was noticeably smaller and cleaner than Emma's—she had paid no attention to the quality of folding, nor wasted any time bothering to notice. The basket neared empty, and once it was, Emma gripped the sides of it and stopped moving.

"He deserves to know, no matter what happened between you two," said Mrs. Corwell. "At least give him the time to say goodbye."

Emma felt her jaw harden. Her foot began tapping against the floor and soon she grabbed the sweater from her mother's pile and threw it over her shoulders. Mrs. Corwell said nothing and sighed, contentedly, as Emma bounded down the staircase and out the door.

She had eight days left to tell him, but Emma's legs couldn't take her to the lodging house fast enough. Her mind was screaming at her, "He's hurt you, he's treated you terribly, you need to be away from him for good." She still remembered seeing Spot walk out of Sonny's with that waitress. God only knows what happened between them. But even as these thoughts raced through her mind, she ran faster and faster and faster.

There were many boys littered across the lobby and porch when Emma finally got there. She paid not attention to them and bounded up the narrow staircase. Panting and flushed, Emma entered the bunkroom and noticed Spot's empty bed. Bolt sat up with a stunned look on his face.

"Uh, what's goin' on, Emma?" he asked awkwardly.

"Where's Spot?" hurried Emma. "I need to talk to him."

"He went to Sonny's with some 'a the boys…" Bolt got to his feet cautiously as if weaning her into something difficult. "I, uh, I'm not sure what else there is ta say ta him, Emma."

Emma scrunched her face angrily. "No, Bolt, you don't know what's going on at all."

"Look, I've been talkin' ta him the past week. I don't think talkin' is gonna help this time." He placed his hand on Emma's shoulder, only to have it jerked away in her offense. "I'm sorry. I know he's—"

"Don't do this, Bolt! Don't do his talking for him! I'm going to Sonny's."

"Emma, I really don't…" Bolt trailed off, helpless, as Emma hurried downstairs.

Sonny's restaurant was closed for the night, but the basement, whose entrance was around the corner, was certainly not. The speakeasy secretly came alive at night and Emma had attended on several occasions. The most recent she could recall had taken place after she found out she was moving, and she had peeled some sleazy barmaid from Spot's lap as soon as she arrived.

She wandered through the crowd of drunken guests, straining her eyes to scope out anyone she knew. Across the room, she came upon Thompson, a close friend of Spot's. He and three other newsies sat crammed against the bar, drinking shot after shot and ordering more rounds.

"Hey!" Emma grabbed Thompson's arm tight and pulled him close.

"Oh! Hey…Emma!" he slurred.

"Where's Spot? It's really important I talk to him!"

Thompson, his eyes glazed over significantly, pressed his lips together and looked above him. "Um…ya know, I think…he went upstairs."

"Upstairs? To the restaurant?" Emma grew suspicious as Thompson fluttered his fingers around above them.

"Yeah, try the kitchen maybe? I heard 'im say he was hungry…or somethin'."

"The kitchen. Alright. Thanks."

Emma weaved her way out of the crowd again effortlessly. Her pulse had sped up and she even felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead. She was scared to death to see what Spot was doing upstairs but a part of her wanted some sort of confirmation. It was as though she wanted evidence for hating him so much.

The doors were locked when she tried shaking them. Inside, the kitchen door opened and, not to her surprise but definite horror, Elizabeth made her way across the restaurant. Emma swallowed the lump in her throat and composed herself when Elizabeth opened the front door.

"We're closed."

"I know, I just…" Emma felt her voice tremble and she felt powerless standing in front of Elizabeth.

"You okay?" she eyed Emma carefully. "I'm not exactly supposed to do this, but you can go 'round the corner and down that staircase…It might cheer you up, if you know what I mean."

Emma shook her head and hung her head low. Looking up again, she strained her eyes into the restaurant and back into the kitchen. She noticed a boy sitting on the counter, faced to the side, reaching his arms behind him to lean his weight upon.

"D'you know Spot Conlon?" Emma heard herself say.

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side and subtly pointed behind her. "Yeah, I…do you know him?"

"You could say that, I guess." Emma now grew angry with each passing moment. Elizabeth was smiling in her face as if an old friend had met up with her out of coincidence. She had no idea who Emma was.

"Oh, wait," said Elizabeth in a moment of clarity. "Is he one 'a those, 'I had a really good time last night, pick you up tomorrow' type of guys? Ya know, only good for _one thing_?" She laughed as if it were an inside joke between them.

Emma closed her eyes and held up her palms. Her friendship with Spot sped through her mind at warp speed. "I don't really…I don't know what to say to that. I guess he is now."

"Well, thanks for the tip!" said Elizabeth obliviously. "I believed him when he actually said that a couple of days ago when I kicked 'im out! Then he shows up again, I thought he was just messin' with my brain or something!"

Emma stared hard at Elizabeth as she continued to speak. She smiled in her face, laughing at the coincidence that they had shared Spot between them, that they had something in common to bond over and perhaps share drinks over their broken hearts with. This girl was the most audacious, charismatic, gorgeous, confident girl she had ever met and Emma wanted to knock her teeth out.

"…I mean, I had a feeling he was a playboy like that, but you know what I mean when I say _sweet talk_, right? The boy's good, the boy's good." Elizabeth sighed contentedly, unaware at all of Emma's feelings or expression on her face. "But hey, thanks for confirming that about 'im. I'll just kick 'im out after tonight and tomorrow I'll buy you a drink, how's that sound?"

Emma nodded as the bile from her stomach felt as though it was coming out. She smiled weakly, with squinted eyes full of tears, and nodded along. As Elizabeth gave her a hug goodbye, Emma could confirm, in a painful moment of clarity, that it was the same Spot Conlon they were talking about sitting in the kitchen, and made her way home.


	18. A Thousand Pieces

**Part I, Chapter XVIII**

**April 10, 1899**

**Brooklyn, New York**

**1:18 a.m.**

Spot held his forehead in his hands as he sat up. _I can't do this anymore._ He stared at the floor and looked at the time on the open pocket watch sitting on his nightstand. He had been in bed little over an hour and only restless sleep plagued him. Not careful to be silent, he crawled out his window. He let his feet dangle over the edge of the fire escape as he rested his chin on the iron bar.

"See wha' some dame gimme, Tony?"

"That's a daisy that is. How'd _you_ get it?"

Looking down, Spot eyed two young men strolling slowly down the street.

"She gave it ta me, don't you listen? Walkin' through the market today and she was passin' 'em out. Placed it right in my hand heah."

As the two men walked out of sight, the conversation he had overheard struck a chord with Spot. Upon first meeting Emma, nine years ago, she had teased him about the name he would become legendary for. Before she had run off, she placed a fully blossomed daisy into his hand.

Spot grabbed his collarbone, as he instinctively did from time to time when he thought of Emma. The key necklace was gone.

After thoughtful time and consideration, Spot stood up. He was going to go inside, rest his eyes, and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow morning he would wake up, sell papers, and talk to Emma. Already he didn't like the idea of himself accepting partial, or any, responsibility; but if that's what it took to get Emma back, he was going to do it.

**6:05 a.m.**

Emma's eyes opened wearily to the sound of voices and movement about the apartment. She heard her parents' voices, and those of strangers. She closed her eyes again and pulled the blanket over her head. What time was it? What _day_ was it?

Moving day. She sank lower into her bed.

"Emma Marie!" called her mother from the other room. "Wake up, get a move on!"

Emma sighed impatiently. "I'm _up_."

"Then get your things together! The movers are leaving in an hour and I don't want you holding them up!"

Miserably, Emma picked up her pillow and smothered it over the side of her head. Ten minutes passed and her mother invited herself into her room, yanking the blanket from Emma's bed in one fluid motion. She groaned miserably and curled into a ball.

"Come on, Emma! I need you to get ready!"

As Emma put the final touches to everything she ever owned in her room, she stopped and leaned her forehead against the window. The sun glowed on her closed eyelids. If she turned her head to the left, the window framed a long view of the city. If she squinted her eyes, she could see the Brooklyn Bridge, the docks, and the river. She turned and leaned her back against the window, wiping tears from her cheeks.

On the nightstand, curled in the tangles of a shoelace, was the key necklace. She had found it buried underneath the doormat of the front door of the bakery only days ago. She thought picked it up and stared at it in consideration.

**12:21 p.m.**

Spot paced up and down the block. His stomach growled, but he hadn't eaten lunch because of the pangs of guilt he had been having. He ran through the speech in his mind, motioning during certain points and shaking his head low during others. His key necklace was gone, as he kept reminding himself every time he checked his neck.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Stopping of interruption, Spot looked up and met the bewildered expression of Elizabeth. Her face was a mixture of impatience and confusion, as they could both recall Elizabeth giving Spot the boot the morning after she had first met Emma. He had been put in his place, for a change, and had not stepped a foot near Sonny's since then.

"Nothin'. What's it ta you?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "If you're practicing some kind of apology, don't bother. She doesn't want to hear it. It'd hurt her too much."

Spot shook his head, puzzled. "Her who? You?"

"No. Emma."

"What? How d'you know her?" The level of his voice increased.

"Look, that doesn't matter, Spot. Don't hurt her any more than you already have, okay? Let it go."

He walked away, shaking his head low, and as he brushed past her, he said, "You don' know anythin' about me an' her. Don't talk about Emma."

**12:28 p.m.**

The train station seemed so final once Emma had arrived. As her parents collected their carry-on luggage, she took a seat on the bench and waited for their train. In the distance, another train arrived and the passengers filed out of the car. She watched as a young man hopped out with long-stemmed daisies in his hand. After scoping out the crowd anxiously, a smile flashed onto his face brightly as he ran to a young woman. They embraced tightly and shared an innocent, loving kiss. She received the flowers thankfully and planted another kiss on the man's lips.

"Emma, time to board." Mr. Corwell placed his arm on her shoulder. She looked at him hesitantly and he closed his eyes, making his way toward the train. Mrs. Corwell followed behind.

Emma stopped in her tracks at the door. She closed her eyes and saw Spot. She saw him the first time they had met; when he showed up to return her key; the first time he kissed her. She saw the young man embracing the young woman with a kiss and daisies in his hand.

"Come on, dear," interrupted Mrs. Corwell. "Get a move on, people are waiting."

**12:35 p.m.**

It came as a great surprise to see Corwell Bakery locked up. It was no holiday. It was an ordinary day. Spot shook the front doors lightly at first, then harder and harder, knocking on the windows and calling for someone to let him inside. From the kitchen, an irritated cook emerged and opened the lobby door a crack.

"Can I help you, son?" he inquired, his eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"Yeah, 'scuse me a second." Spot shoved opened the door and past the cook.

"What—what are you doing here, we're closed today!"

Spot ignored the man and bounded up the staircase. He grabbed the doorknob but it wouldn't turn. He looked down and saw his key necklace dangling from the doorknob. The sight of it made his heart race and his stomach rake with nerves as he tried to figure out what this meant. He grabbed the key and ran downstairs once more.

"Where is she? What's goin' on?" he urged the cook.

"Who? Helen?"

"Emma! Where's Emma?"

The cook, still confused, shook his head slightly. "Well—they're at the train station, or at least on their way out of here."

"What—Where're they going?"

"Philadelphia. They've opened another store down there, they're moving today."

Spot suddenly felt very alone. He remained still a moment as the information sunk in. The cook raised his palms helplessly and looked at the clock on the wall.

"Their train leaves in just a few minutes, if that helps. I'm sorry."

Spot took a deep breath, threw the necklace over his head, and bolted for the door. His mind raced at a mile a minute as he dodged passers-by in the street. He took every shortcut he knew, mapping out Brooklyn in his brain as he cut through alleys and weaved in and out of the crowded markets.

At the train station, he breathlessly asked the man at the ticket booth where the train to Philadelphia was located.

"Well, it's right over there, son, but I've no more tickets for you—"

Leaving the man still pointing to the left, Spot hurried through the building and out onto the loading dock. The steam to the train was rising into the sky, preparing to take off down the track. As the last of the passengers boarded, Spot pushed open the door and was blocked by a navy blue-suited man, getting ready to take tickets.

"I'm sorry, son, we're all full."

"No, I need to get on this train. I need to talk to someone." He gripped the narrow doorframe tightly, refusing to let the train leave without him.

"I'm sorry, you'll have to catch another train!" The man closed the door.

Spot knocked his fist onto the glass. "_Emma!_"

**12:41 p.m.**

Emma jumped to her feet. She asked hurriedly, "Did you hear that?"

"What, dear?" asked Mrs. Corwell.

Emma didn't respond. Her heart practically skipped a beat and even though she couldn't see him, she heard Spot. Her breath came in a quick, shortened rhythm and her lip started to quiver.

"'Scuse me, miss, you'll have to take your seat. We're just about to leave," said one of the ticket collectors.

She looked at him, misty-eyed, and remained standing.

"Emma, sit down right now," ordered Mr. Corwell.

"I…I can't…" stuttered Emma, trembling.

"Emma, it's alright, just sit down," said Mrs. Corwell.

She could hear Spot still trying to make his way onto the train. Passengers exchanged looks between Spot outside on one end of the car, and Emma on the other side. If she had the strength, she would shove past the ticket collector, pry open the door, and leap onto the loading dock. But she reminded herself, as best as she could, what he had done to her. She closed her eyes and felt the train moving.

"_Emma!_"

The moment had passed, Spot still trying to get on, and Emma sat down slowly in defeat. She leaned her head against the window, the sun warming her face, and covered her eyes with her hands. Her parents said nothing as she cried silently across from them.

**12:43 p.m.**

As he watched the train move further into the distance, Spot felt the same loneliness he felt when the cook had told him they were moving to Philadelphia. His heart ached as he stood breathless and hurt, trembling as the train disappeared.

When he turned around and walked a few steps forward, he saw his reflection before him in a window. He stood still as he glared back at it. What was the saying about doors, or windows? When you close a door, there's a window of opportunity?

_Bullshit._

Spot felt betrayed and filled with more anger than he had ever felt before. He stomped forward with the vision of Emma—everything they had ever had together—burning in his mind. He reeled his fist back and shattered the window into a thousand pieces.

**END PART I**


	19. Part II

**Part II, Chapter I  
**

**---**

**Brooklyn, New York**

"Time stops for no one." Spot Conlon had heard that phrase once in his life. He never understood the true meaning until he left the train station that day, his head hung low, powerless. It had taken years for Spot to grow to love Emma, and only a moment to lose her. Time had not dealt him a fortunate hand that day, and he could not take back any time to start over.

But it was not in his nature to analyze what had gone wrong in the relationship or what had happened to make him lose the most important person in his life. Nor was it in his nature to accept full responsibility, even when he had admitted to some of it when he planned to talk to her the day she had left. It was one hundred percent likely that Spot simply became enraged with the situation, bitched about it a little bit, and scoffed it off in the end.

"She's just ridiculous," stated Spot a week later.

"Ridiculous?" repeated Bolt skeptically.

"Yeah, Bolt, did I stutter? Can't believe she'd be so selfish just ta up an' leave like that…what a shitty thing ta do ta someone. _That_ makes her ridiculous."

Bolt glanced at his friend, who furrowed his eyes in concentration behind a hand of playing cards. He replied calmly, "I see yer point. Anythin' ya gonna do 'bout it?"

"What d'ya mean? She's in Philly."

"Not gonna go try an' find 'er there?"

Spot's head snapped to attention, his face twisted to prove Bolt's absurdity. "What makes ya think I wanna see 'er again, Bolt?"

Bolt pressed his lips together and pointed to Spot's bunk. Hidden beneath the bed was a small suitcase. His nightstand was cleared of personal things, save for a jar full of coins and a dollar bill. Spot eyed the suitcase, shook his head, and shuffled the cards around in his hands.

"That'd be ridiculous, Bolt. I can't leave Brooklyn." He grouped his cards together, indicating he would fold. "Not for her."

* * *

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

There wasn't the same comfort in her Philadelphia apartment as there had been in Brooklyn. This was mostly to blame, of course, because of the short time Emma had decided this—she was in her new bedroom for an hour and forced herself not to like it. Even with her mother's family living two doors down in the cramped, narrow-spaced, crooked apartment building located one block from the bakery, there was no real comfort.

She didn't unpack her suitcase for two weeks. On some level, she knew this act was completely pointless, because even if she had the money to move back to Brooklyn, she wouldn't. Not with Spot living there. Too much of her past was still alive in Brooklyn.

Yet even so, Emma found herself dangling her legs from her fire escape outside her bedroom window, staring up into nothing and trying to clear her mind. The only thing similar to her old home was the fire escape—she _did_ find comfort in that. Too many memories for her involved a fire escape.

"It's time for dinner, Em," called her mother from the window.

Emma nodded. She brushed herself off and followed her parents two doors down the stuffy hallway to her Aunt and Uncle's apartment, where five children littered the rooms, either helping in the kitchen or running around in circles. Emma did not think they deserved attention. She found no humor in them.

"Chin up, Emmy," said Aunt Susan with a smile.

After a moment, Emma forced a smile onto her face.

"Oh, before I forget…" Aunt Susan dug around the pockets of her apron and retrieved a bronze key. "In case of emergency, your parents want you to have this. It's the key for this apartment, in case you ever need something and we're not here."

The smile faded quickly from Emma's face as she stared achingly in the small trinket sitting in the palm of her hand. Warding off the tears welling in her eyes, Emma tightened her hand into a fist, the key's ridges digging into her shaking flesh. She took a seat at the dinner table, getting used to the people before her and the room around her. She knew she would be seeing these people everyday for a long time; she adjusted her in her seat and tried, against her will, to get as comfortable as she possibly could.


	20. A Subtle Reminder

**Part II, Chapter II **

**March 31, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

"Bettah be more next time, Nickel. I ain't playin' around."

"Yes, sir. I'll double it t'morrow."

"_Triple_."

The young boy gulped. "I will."

"Go tah bed, Nickel. I'm expectin' more outta ya tomorrow."

As the red-headed runt of the newsies sulked away from the older leaders, Spot placed the lid on top of the cash box and wrote down the day's total on a scrap of paper. A year ago, he and Bolt had devised a plan in which he charged younger, newer newsies a portion of their daily earnings as they were shown the ropes to Spot's territory. The plan, they had told the boys, was to get beginners to sell more papers since a fraction of it went to Spot. Really, it was entirely likely that Spot and Bolt just wanted to, shamelessly, make some money on the side. In between the daily editions, however, Spot and Bolt would toughen them up to become Brooklyn newsies.

"Kid's gonna be payin' my way out West if he don't show up good enough," said Bolt. "Don't know if he'll make it anyday."

"Well, then we'll just keep chargin' 'im till he gets it right. And I ain't got a problem with that," responded Spot. "B'sides, we deserve all the reward we can get. This job ain't easy."

As Spot locked the cash box and tucked it underneath his bunk, he noticed one of his boys, Sneaks, holding a washcloth to his face near the washrooms. Sneaks was nearly fourteen years old, and was generally reserved, hardly speaking up at meetings or making a fuss—not very common traits for Spot's newsies. It was boys like Sneaks that Spot was bound and determined to mold into tough, warrior-like newsies who suited Brooklyn's tough reputation.

Sneaks caught a glimpse of Spot approaching him. He recoiled slightly, and tossed the washcloth into the sink, turning to walk in the other direction.

"Not so fast, Sneaks. Lemme see it."

Sneaks sighed, defeated, as Spot grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"Whoa, nice shinah!"

The boy's left eye was swollen with a purple and red bruise circling his eyelid.

"What happened?" asked Spot, looking down at him harshly.

As Sneaks recollected the story, Spot squinted his eyes, examining the bruise closely as he listened absently. Interrupting him, Spot said, "Ya know, there's a trick to gettin' rid 'a those."

"Really? What's—"

Before Sneaks could finish his question, Spot threw a quick punch to the other side of his face. The boy reeled backward, caught entirely off guard, and intuitively grabbed his face.

"_Shit_!" blurted Sneaks, stumbling backward and holding his face.

"The trick is knowin' how ta block a punch," finished Spot arrogantly.

"Well, I wasn't expectin' that!" screeched Sneaks. "Damn!"

"Ain't that how ya got the other one in the foist place?" Spot ran cold water over the rag and rung it out. "After mornin' edition, come to tha docks and we'll go ovah some more 'tricks.'"

Sneaks looked up and nodded dutifully. Spot let out a laugh and shook his head, tossing the washcloth back to Sneaks and patting him on the back.

"Nice, Conlon. Why don't'cha go teach them kids in the schoolhouse down the block?" joked Bolt once Spot had returned to his bunk.

Something about Bolt's comment suddenly reminded him of someone he hadn't thought of in a long while. It sounded exactly like a comment Emma would make. He disregarded those thoughts, though, and merely replied, "They'se gotta learn sometime, right?"

* * *

**March 31, 1902**

**Philadelphia, PA**

"Cheers to good health and happiness!"

"Cheers!"

Emma knocked her glass against the others'. She smiled delicately and sipped, closing her eyes. She felt a hand against her back.

"Everything alright?"

"Alright," she confirmed. "Yes."

The celebration was underway in the small apartment. Her parents, who had seemingly aged dramatically, congratulated the couple engaged to be married. It was her cousin and the preacher's son who lived half a block down from them. Her parents spoke with joy about their new lives. Emma sat the window with the boy who lived across the hall, Peter.

"Can I get you anything?" offered Peter.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

Peter winked at her congenially and got up to congratulate the couple. Annette Crenshaw, Peter's mother, appeared at Emma's side unexpectedly.

"Tell me, dear," started Annette, taking a sip of her drink, "how long do I have to wait to see you and Peter this way? Hm? Don't keep me waiting too long, dear, I'm an old woman these days!" She puffed her short, brown curls which had fallen limp and were graying at the roots.

Emma bit her lip. "I suppose you can't rush this sort of thing, Mrs. Crenshaw," replied Emma as politely as possible. She gulped down her drink slowly, shaking away the screwy thought of herself in a white wedding gown with nobody else but Peter at her side in a black and white photograph.

"Oh, _please_! Dear, we'd only introduced your cousin and her fiancé a little over a month ago. I do believe you've lived here much longer than a month…"

"It'll be three years on April tenth," corrected Annette promptly.

"Hm. Yes, well, I do think you and Peter should get a move on, then…" Annette trailed off as she floated away from Emma's side and into a small group of family friends.

Emma closed her eyes. _If I have to hear about marrying Peter one more time…_

"Dessert?"

She opened her eyes to a small, light pink pastry sitting in the pale palm of Peter's, his torso slightly bent as if bowing to her, and his lips spread into his cheeks amiably.

"Thank you, Peter," she sighed lightly, taking the small cake and biting into it graciously.

Peter took a seat next to her on the window pane. She didn't look at him, but she out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him staring at her. She blinked and brought the pastry to her mouth once more, taking a bigger bite. A moment later, she felt Peter's fingers gently running through the blonde strands of hair that had fallen in front of her face.

"W'd'you 'scuse me fer a second?" mumbled Emma through a mouthful of food.

She quickly got up and weaved through the crowd out the front door, fleeing down the hallway and into her own apartment. She slammed behind her bedroom door, resting against the wall of her room. With a breath of fresh air, she crawled out of her window and fixed herself comfortably on the fire escape when she felt something smooth underneath her hand.

There upon the wrought iron structure was, as if written in the stars, a daisy. She recalled the day she had given it to Spot—the same day she had met and named him, as if claiming him already. She quickly ripped the flower to shreds and flung the contents off the fire escape and into the alley. She no longer associated happiness with Spot Conlon.


	21. Peter Crenshaw

**Part II, Chapter III **

**April 4, 1902**

**Philadelphia, PA**

Like an inconsistent metronome, the trinket paced back and forth, back and forth. Dangling from a thin, silver chain of tiny links, the antique locket Emma had placed on the open windowsill swayed in the breeze. Across the room, Emma stared at it as she leaned against the wall. The brightness of the afternoon sun provided a white backdrop for the silhouette of the heart-shaped heirloom, so it was all Emma could see.

_What if it fell out the window?_ Thought Emma, smirking to herself. _That would solve a minor problem._

But then she thought of how impossible it would be to replace. The locket was completely _ir_replaceable. It wasn't like a shoelace or piece of string she used to wear around her neck as a child. It certainly was no duplicable trinket—like a key. This locket necklace, it would seem, held more significance. Yes, it would seem much more important.

"Emma!" called her mother from the door.

Startled out of her trance, Emma hurried to the window and snatched the necklace, hiding it in the drawer of her nightstand.

"Have you finished the laundry?"

"Just about!" replied Emma. She ducked out the window and began pulling in the line of drying clothes from between the two buildings.

Helen Corwell entered her bedroom and stuck her head out the window. "You need to get dinner started afterward. The Crenshaw's are joining us tonight. I'd like for you to make that entree you seem to have a knack for."

"Oh, alright."

"I know Peter enjoys your cooking. He compliments you every time you prepare a meal."

Emma closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. "I've noticed."

Helen collected the clothespins her daughter had subconsciously tossed away behind her, and disregarded the action.

"It's getting pretty serious, isn't it?" she asked Emma.

"Hm?"

"With Peter. You two seem to be attached at the hip lately."

_Not by choice_,Emma wanted to clarify.

For the past month, Peter Crenshaw and his impossible mother had been going quite out of their way to force the two young adults into couple-like situations. When Crenshaw's and the Corwell's had dinner together, they would leave Peter and Emma to clean up while the rest of them took coffee in the other apartment. _How convenient_. They would also send Peter and Emma ahead of them to save seats during church. Quite frequently, Peter would accompany Emma to the market to help carry groceries, and vice versa. On occasion, when it would get too busy, Peter leant his hand in the Corwell's bakery to help get them through the line out the door.

Emma huffed. While she appreciated Peter Crenshaw's company, and indeed she thought he was a nice boy, she merely felt no connection with him. It just didn't…

"Fit," Emma said to herself, completing her thought aloud.

"I'm sorry?" asked her mother.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

As dinner cooked on the stove, Emma reentered her bedroom. She dug out the locket she had hidden from her mother and stared at it in her palm. The picture holders were empty. What photograph would best suit the silver trinket? The only one that flashed into her mind was the same, reoccurring image of a miserable wedding photo of she and Peter on their theoretical wedding day. Immediately she dropped the necklace to the floor and returned to the kitchen.

A knock came to the apartment door, and Emma was greeted by a bouquet of fresh flowers. Hidden behind a display of white roses was a blushing, dimple-cheeked Peter with eyes that simply screamed, _Love me_.

Emma smiled and accepted the gift graciously. "How sweet of you, Peter. Please, come in."

"The pleasure's mine, Emma. I know I'm early, but I thought we could have a little more time together without our crazy parents hounding us every second."

"Oh, how true! They've become impossible, haven't they?"

Peter shrugged blissfully, throwing his palms up for effect. Knowing every inch of the apartment already, he retrieved the plates and silverware from the kitchen and began setting the table.

"So you enjoyed the last gift I gave you, did you? Other than the flowers, of course," asked Peter.

Emma felt her naked collarbone. "Yes, again, it's so sweet of you. Would you excuse me for a moment?"

Emma hurried into her bedroom and picked up the necklace from the ground. She fumbled to get the chain around her neck until she realized it wouldn't clasp together. The chain was too short.

"Everything all right?" queried Peter from the doorway.

_Give me space!_ Was what Emma initially wanted to say.

"Uhm, no," she saved. "It seems…well, it's short. The necklace. It doesn't fit."

Peter walked over to inspect it, a look of genuine concern taking over his face. He fingered the small links and worked it around in his palm.

"Not to worry! My grandmother was a small woman, it's certainly not your fault!" replied Peter with optimism. "I'll take this back to my apartment and get it fixed. I'll be right back."

Emma nodded and watched as he left, her feet nailed to the floor. She rubbed her neck, the skin feeling raw from trying to make the necklace fit. And the more she rubbed, the more she felt like she couldn't breathe.


	22. A Philadelphia Story

**Part II, Chapter IV**

**April 7, 1902**

**Philadelphia, PA**

"It's Peter's birthday tomorrow," said Mrs. Corwell.

Emma looked up from the dishes. "And?"

"And you should get him a gift."

Emma wanted to place her fist on her hip defiantly and make a face. Instead, she swallowed her defiance and nodded slowly.

"Well, what d'you think I should get him? I hardly know his interests or anything."

"Hardly know? Goodness, you seem to spend so much time together. What do you guys talk about? How could you _possibly_ not know?"

"Because I don't know!" snapped Emma, the dishes colliding together in her hands.

Mrs. Corwell paused and subtly held up her palms as if to say she meant no harm. There was a silence between them that lasted until Emma finished madly scrubbing the dishes in the sink. With an obvious temper, she took off her apron and said she was going to "find that wretched birthday gift."

Philadelphia had a way of angering Emma in a way she never thought a single place could. The people she knew--and at times it felt as if it were the whole city--never seemed to listen to her wants or needs. Nobody asked her how she actually felt about Peter Crenshaw. All they did was tell her how much of a perfect couple they seemed to be. It also didn't help that Mrs. Crenshaw seemed to be planning the wedding already.

"Hey, watch it, lady!" grouched a man she had inadvertently bumped into on the street.

"So sorry…" she replied weakly.

In Brooklyn, she had no problem weaving in and out of the crowds. She walked with her face boldly looking the world in the eye and she was confident in who she was. In Philly, she had no desire to take a look around or get to know anybody. Her eyes followed her footsteps and she had never felt more alone in her life. She used to turn to one, and only one, person whenever she would get into a mood that brought her down--and even so, that wasn't very often, considering the company she had had before now.

The next day, at Peter's birthday dinner, she watched him open her gift with sincere anticipation and gratitude. What had she gotten him? She thought hard but remembered just as Peter pulled open the wrapping paper that it was a book she had faintly recalled he had mentioned recently. She blinked and saw a key necklace in his hands. The shoelace was thin and shredding, the key still wet from snow on the ground…

He smirked. "Think I'd wear jewelry, Em?"

She blinked again. Peter smiled brightly.

"Thank you, Emma. Just the book I wanted," said Peter as he wrapped her into a tight embrace.

Her face burned scarlet. Peter hugged her for an eternity in front of their parents, and she was certain she saw Mrs. Crenshaw dab her eyes across the table. As he let go, he kissed her on the cheek, the bravest move he had ever laid on her.

Coffee and dessert were far more awkward than Emma could have imagined, especially because the rest of the conversation consisted of Emma's cousin who had just gotten engaged. Mrs. Crenshaw, who held no blood link to her cousin, was simply overjoyed.

"Oh! I told Rebecca all about the wedding _my _parents had…Such a beautiful ceremony, in the church she grew up…Wish I could have been there…" her eyes traveled off as if seeing it in her head.

Emma took a deep breath and brought her coffee to her lips.

"You know, Emma, the more I think about it, the more you resemble my mother when she was your age."

At the very sound of Mrs. Crenshaw's comment, Emma choked on her drink and spilled it all onto her lap. Thankful for the interruption she had mistakenly made for herself, she immediately dismissed herself and scurried into her bedroom. She ripped off her dress without unbuttoning and hurled it across the room. The coffee stain had soaked onto her slip and had started to burn her skin.

In the privacy of her own environment--without anyone telling her what to do or what to feel--she searched for a familiar object, something of importance. Her eyes traveled from wall to wall, to her bed, to her closet, to her nightstand. She found nothing that resonated. It was Philadelphia altogether that didn't sit well with her. She leaned against the wall and stared at the closed window across the room.

"Emma?" said Peter, knocking at the door. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Peter," she lied. "I'm fine."

He opened the door hesitantly and shut it, apologizing, as soon as he realized she was only in a slip.

"I'm sorry! We'll talk when you're decent."

Emma watched him slam the door shut. She walked over and opened it invitingly, comfortable in her skin and mere slip. Peter looked only in her eyes and she said to him, "It's fine. Come in."

After nervous fumbling, Peter took a seat on the edge of the bed next to Emma. He looked straight ahead and rubbed his palms together in his lap.

"It was so very nice of you to give me the book for my birthday," he said. "So thoughtful."

Emma shrugged and half-smiled.

"Oh! Before I forget, I have something for you as well." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the locket necklace he had given her previously yet had not fit correctly. "I fit it with another chain, so it should be just right now."

Emma closed her eyes and nodded. "Thank you, Peter."

She made to take it from his hand, yet he took his hand away and got up from the bed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, facing her. Emma could practically hear his heart crashing against his rib cage. She tapped her feet against the floor as if trying to calm Peter down before her. Bravely, Peter opened his eyes again and stared into hers.

"Emma," he began. And just as she smiled for him comfortingly, he got down on one knee.

Her feet stopped moving at once, much like her heartbeat. She felt the color drain from her face and she knew there was nothing she could do about it being etched all over her face. Peter grabbed her hands and continued.

"Emma Marie Corwell…you mean so much to me, more than I could possibly say. I knew the moment we were introduced, I was meant to be with you…"

Emma's stomach turned over. The coffee stain seared into her naked, revealed flesh.

"…And my affection for you gets stronger with each passing day. Your smile, your eyes…they fill me with so much love, I never thought it possible to want to be with someone the way I want to be with you. Please, I'd be honored…"

_Don't say it, don't say it_, thought Emma. _For the love of God, do not say it_…

"…Will you marry me?"

The words crushed her heart and soul. Her hands trembled within his and she suddenly felt bare, raw, and exposed. Her mind raced furiously, and yet, ironically, she was completely blank.

"Uhm," she squeaked, her throat dry. "Peter…"

He looked at her hopefully, his eyes huge. She smiled in spite of herself and tightened her grip on his hands, shaking them, and she nodded.

"May I get dressed?"

Peter, out of his trance, nodded dotingly and stood up, his hands still grasping hers.

"I'll just, I'll wait outside!"

"O-Okay…"

He awkwardly bent down and kissed her cheek. Her eyes burned into the back of his suit jacket as he left her room.

"_Well? What did she say?_" she heard Mrs. Crenshaw ask him the moment he stepped foot outside.

The sudden need for air engulfed Emma. She ran to the window, shoving it open with a force. Her mind dizzily flashed images in her mind--Peter Crenshaw, the locket, a key, the Brooklyn Bridge, her parents, the coffee stain, the wedding photograph she had so long dreaded in her mind.

She rifled through her closet suddenly and threw on the first dress she grabbed, for she never felt more exposed than at that particular moment. She choked for air and recognized the lump in her throat that filled her with fear, anxiety, and, for some reason, hurt. She could hardly speak. Her room felt like a prison cell.

A round of knocks came to her door that interrupted the bare silence and emptiness of Emma's bedroom. They sounded again, unanswered.

"Emma?"


	23. The Rat

**Part II, Chapter V**

**April 10, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Piercing, slit blue eyes locked their position between two, small wooden pegs. He reeled his right arm back, the familiar sound of stretched rubber band filling his ear.

"I ain't done nothin''!" the Crown Heights boy whimpered helplessly, crouched down with his arms bound at his back. "I swears!"

The pathetic, sobbing victim was in the direct line of fire for not only Spot Conlon, but Spot Conlon's slingshot. He pressed his lips together and furrowed his eyebrows, thinking.

"Then why'd we see yer sorry ass runnin' like hell when we got up to the street, Johnny?" interrogated Bolt, who stood with his back against the only light pole within distance at the docks. As he cupped a hand over his match, lighting a cigarette, he added, "Explain that to us."

"I was--ARGH!"

Spot fired a warning shot mere inches from Johnny's face. The marble ricocheted off the wooden plank and into the dark, murky waters of the Hudson.

"Jesus! Jesus Christ, you almost shot me in the eye, you crazy bastard!"

"Shut the fuck up. Remembah who you'se talkin' to, Crown Heights."

Spot, who always kept two marbles in the nook of his fingers to reload in a hurry, placed another marble and shot once more at the dock near Johnny's trembling body.

"CHRIST!"

Johnny stumbled over and rolled onto his back, squirming like a dying cockroach. He panted in between curses, and closed his eyes tight facing the night sky.

"Calm down, Johnny, we ain't gonna kill ya," reassured Spot; though the cold, deadened tone of his voice sounded as if he meant the opposite.

"Yeah, we'se gonna have a little fun first! Right, Conlon?" laughed Bolt.

Spot ignored Bolt's crack and grabbed the collar of Johnny's shirt, jerking him upward. Johnny remained in a coiled position with his eyes still shut. Spot carried the boy's scrawny, wiry frame hovering above the ground a few inches while he dragged him toward the bridge.

"Wh-What're you doin', Conlon?" asked Johnny frantically.

His feet kicked the newsie's legs so hard that his entire body writhed to break free. Spot, who was undeterred, dragged Johnny to the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Don't do it! I can't--I can't swim!"

Spot ignored the request and, in one swift movement, hoisted Johnny over the edge of the bridge. The boy from Crown Heights kicked and squirmed for his life, shredding any dignity and composure, dangling dizzily high above the menacing black water below him.

"Please! Bring me ovah! I'se done nothin'! "

With his knuckles white and splitting from holding Johnny only by his collar, Spot spoke so close to the boy's face, he could feel heat from the sweat dripping down his forehead.

"Johnny, you got balls tah call the cops on me! An' even though I might have respect for punks who do some crazy shit, you was just a dirty rat!"

"I already told ya! I don' even know Sonny! Why would I wanna get 'im shut down? Oh Christ…" Johnny turned his head and looked down.

"'Cause you an' yer Heights boys knew we was gonna be there last night! Guess how many 'a my boys is locked up because 'a yer little stunt last night, Johnny. Go 'head, guess!"

"Oh God, I don' know, Conlon, I don' know! Four, five…!"

"Twelve! Twelve, Johnny!"

Spot leaned forward, dipping Johnny lower from the edge of the railing. He looked into the boy's face, which was twisted with genuine terror and fear. After letting him hang a moment, Spot pulled him over the edge and tossed him to the ground where he, again, scrunched up into a ball like a cockroach.

Spot disregarded his thankful yet pathetic sobs and walked toward Bolt.

"Do we pitch 'im?"

"Nah," said Spot as he looked at Johnny, "I think we should lock 'im up fer a while."

Ten minutes later found Johnny bound and gagged wriggling within the arms of Spot and Bolt, who had carried him by his arms and legs . They dragged him up the stairs and into the bunkroom, where many of the boys turned to watch. Once they realized it had been Johnny, the boy who they had been discussing all day, the boy who had gotten the cops to bust Sonny's underground speakeasy the previous night and landed a dozen of them in jail, a few of them even spat in Johnny's direction.

They followed them to the furthest corner of the bunkroom, where a utility closet was located. As Spot tossed Johnny to the ground, Bolt set up two chairs outside. He scoped out the entire room of not-so-eager boys, since it wasn't anyone's favorite job to keep watch during the night whenever they brought home a captive.

"A'right, let's see what we got…"

The boys looked around the room, at each other, at the ground, anywhere except Bolt's scanning eyes. A few older boys in the back even dropped out and tiptoed back to their beds.

"I saw that! McCroy, Diggins, what, ya think I was born yesterday?" shouted Bolt.

A sigh of relief settled over the bunkroom. Spot slammed the door with a resounding bang and locked the door. He approached McCroy and Diggins in front of the entire group, and handed them the key to the closet.

"No one goes in there unless me or Bolt say so, a'right? Got a problem, wake one of us up. A'right? Got to bed."

Long into the night, as McCroy and Diggins stood guard, there came a quiet rustling outside the window across the bunkroom, past the showers, and close to the utility closet. McCroy pounded once on the closet door, warning Johnny to be quiet or else.

"Fuckin' rat."

The noise sounded once more. McCroy stood up and opened the closet door.

"I _said_, shut the fuck up!"

In the dark, it took McCroy a moment before he realized Johnny was sound asleep. He hadn't moved an inch since Spot threw him in there, and he was even snoring. McCroy looked around, searching for, perhaps, a real rat.

"Just punch 'im in the face, that'll make 'im shut up," suggested Diggins in a groggy voice.

McCroy shut the door. As he sat back down, Bolt entered the stall next to them. He asked how everything was working out, and Diggins answered, "jus' fine." McCroy's eyes shot to the window now, as the sound of slowed steps creeping up the fire escape.

"Bolt. Think someone's tryin' to break in," whispered McCroy harshly.

After flushing, Bolt walked out and peered out the window. The night hid the intruder's face well, and Bolt grabbed the nearest weapon he could he find: a loose board in the corner of the room. McCroy shook Diggins awake, and he asked if he should get Spot. Bolt shook his head, and moved to the wall away from the window.

The prowler made no hesitation in reaching for the window. As it slid open, very slowly, Bolt turned quickly and grabbed the intruder's collar.

"Not so fast! What the hell d'ya think you're--"

The only light in the city fell upon the intruder's face.

"Want me to get Conlon?" asked McCroy.

"No!" reacted Bolt fiercely. "No…They'll go in the closet fer now."

"Ya sure?"

"Positive." Bolt nodded and exhaled deeply. He stared, astonished. "Holy shit…"


	24. Secrets

**Part II, Chapter VI**

**April 10, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Bolt pushed the intruder backward mercilessly onto the fire escape and they fell to the iron. Ignoring McCroy's questions, he crawled out the window and shut it.

"What…the hell…What're you doin' heah?" asked Bolt as he caught his breath. "In Brooklyn?!"

Emma buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

"Does he know?!" asked Bolt.

She shook her head, still crouched down weakly. Bolt bent down but kept a short distance. The surrounding darkness made Bolt feel as though he were a traitor--as though he shouldn't be talking to Emma, as though she were the enemy. He hadn't realized it until after a few moments, but the sight of her made him angry.

"Why'd you come back, Emma?"

Bolt was unable to see her face, but could only imagine what I looked like. He heard her whimpering and could even tell she was trembling.

"I needed to see Spot," she answered finally.

"What for?"

"I don't know, I don't know…" she shook her head.

"You alone?"

She nodded.

McCroy knocked on the window from the inside. His face twisted with angry confusion, he gave Bolt a look that demanded answers. Bolt flicked him off but thought swiftly. He grabbed Emma by the arm aggressively and hoisted her up.

"Get _off _me, Bolt!"

"Hey," he said, pulling her in to speak in her ear, "there's no sayin' I don't throw you right onto the street, Emma. I don't think you'se should be heah but fer some reason I'm helpin' you out."

Emma squirmed and Bolt jerked her arm into submission.

"Stop! If you want my help, then play along and don't say a goddamn word."

Bolt opened the window and dragged Emma inside mercilessly as if hauling in a sack of potatoes. Though she tried to wriggle free from his grasp, she bit her lip so she wouldn't speak, and she swallowed the quick pain of hitting the windowsill and being tossed to the floor. Bolt grabbed the back of her collar, pulling chunks of her hair along with it, and tears welled once more in her eyes.

"Who the hell's that?" asked Diggins, pointing disgustedly.

"Crown Heights."

"Ya mean they already sent someone to get that runt in there?" asked Diggins, pointing behind him to the closet.

Bolt nodded. "Yeah. Don' worry, I'll take care of it."

He opened the door to the closet, and hesitated a moment, glancing down at Emma, who looked up at him. He swallowed and dragged her to the floor next to Johnny, who woke with a start.

"Who the hell're---"

Bolt slammed the door before McCroy and Diggins had a chance to hear Johnny's confusion over the intruder. They looked at Bolt, puzzled.

"Bolt, what the hell was that all about?" asked McCroy.

"Yeah, why'd ya talk to her out there, huh? D'you know her?"

"Yeah, who the hell is she?"

"Enough!" shouted Bolt. He heard some boys in the bunkroom toss and turn at the noise. "No, Diggins, I don' know her, what the hell kinda question is that?"

"Then what'd you talk--"

"I was tryin' to figure out if she was comin' to get Johnny! I was checkin' to see if she was lyin'! And who the hell d'you think you are questioning me like this, huh? Get back to work!"

Diggins swallowed his pride. "Sorry, Bolt."

"Ya gonna wake up Conlon to tell 'im?"

"Don' worry 'bout, McCroy. I'm goin' to bed, an' I don' wanna hear another word about it, a'right?"

McCroy clenched his jaw and nodded. He and Diggins took their seats next to the closet and Bolt walked back to his bunk. Spot sat up as soon as he got back.

"What's goin' on ovah there?" he asked sleepily.

"Nothin'. Took care of it."

"Who'd you put in the closet? What was that about?" He rubbed his eyes.

"Someone was tryin' to break in is all. I took care of it." Bolt avoided looking Spot in the eye all the while and quickly got back into bed.

The rest of the night was sleepless for Bolt. He stared at Spot's bed above him and couldn't help but feel disloyal. Without a wink of sleep, he tried his best to formulate a plan. No way was the shock of Emma's return going to be light on Spot. He couldn't handle something like this since he had seen the damage Emma had done when she left. Not to mention, with Spot's long list of enemies, how safe would Emma be if they ever did reconcile? Wouldn't she be a prime target for anyone trying to take Spot down? He knew keeping this secret, however, would do damage the his friendship with Spot, and what would happen if the two of them couldn't lead Brooklyn together?

Bolt wanted to shut his mind off. When he couldn't, fall asleep he got up and put his plan in motion.


	25. And Lies

**Part II, Chapter VII**

**April 10, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

At the docks in the middle of the night with a single light pole guiding his way, Spot wandered aimlessly, and the waters were black but there were highly contrasted slices of an over-sized full moon floating on top of them. He noticed he was unarmed. Usually he kept his slingshot resting in the waistband of his trousers but now it was noticeably gone. His hat was gone too. His shirt was unbuttoned, revealing his taut chest and stomach, and the key around his neck was burning his flesh.

"Where am I going…"

"Well, I can tell you where you definitely _shouldn't _be going."

Spot blinked and Emma faded into his vision, as if appearing slowly from thin air. He pursed his lips but it was as if he visited her regularly around this time of night.

"Yeah, where's that?" he asked.

"Here."

"Why? Why shouldn't I be here? This is Brooklyn."

"You're right. Maybe _I'm_ the one who shouldn't be here…Yeah, this is not where I should be…" She furrowed her eyebrows and took a look at her surroundings, confused, biting on her finger.

"What d'you mean?"

Emma smiled sweetly, yet deceivingly, and she held up her hand, her fingers spread wide. Looking directly at him she said slowly, "Five…four…"

Spot looked around dizzily for he felt somehow threatened and downright terrified. He wanted to run but his legs felt stiff and immobile.

"…three…two…"

Emma kissed her index finger. Suddenly the wooden boards beneath Spot's feet gave way and crumbled to dust into the water. He grabbed the plank in front of Emma's feet. She looked down at him, watching him hold on for dear life and his legs kicking furiously. She did nothing.

"Gimme yer hand!" screamed Spot, looking down at the now rising water below his feet.

Void of emotion, Emma took out a pocket watch. She pondered what she read in front of her and replied, "Spot, I just don't have time."

Spot could feel the water rising faster and faster, and it was starting to swallow his feet. As it enveloped his legs, he pulled himself onto the docks just as Emma turned her back on him and walked away.

"I'm sorry…" he heard himself whimper pathetically.

Looking back, her eyes now suddenly flooded with tears and her face twisted into sadness and hurt, she replied, "You're too late." And she vanished.

Spot awoke the next morning to short breath. He found the shoelace around his neck had somehow gotten twisted in his sleep and was now snagged uncomfortably tight on his throat. He coughed and reached around his sheets to pull out the key, breathing somewhat better now. He was the first to wake up, as usual, and looked first to the corner with the closet. McCroy and Diggins had each lolled their heads to their shoulders, snoring. Bolt, however, unexpectedly entered through the window and flicked a cigarette butt behind him once he was inside. He immediately looked at Spot sitting up in bed, staring at him.

"Keepah needs to talk to ya downstairs, Conlon," said Bolt quickly.

"Clemens?"

"Yeah. He came up heah a few minutes ago. Needs to talk downstairs. Right now."

Spot sighed and hopped down, crashing to the floor with a thud that woke up a few deep sleepers. He shuffled down the narrow staircase and worked his way through to the lobby. Slouched over the counter near the door, and smoking like a house on fire, was Clemens, the lodging house caretaker.

"Everythin' alright, Clemens?" asked Spot, descending the stairwell.

The old man looked up, his cracked spectacles bent down the bridge of his nose. He brought a tough-skinned hand to his mouth and snubbed out the cigar. Shaking his head he answered, "Think I was robbed again las' night."

Spot looked at the crooked stacks of coins and crinkled dollar bills laying on the counter before him. He ran his finger down the page of last night's tenants, counting to himself.

"Twenty nine, thirty, thirty one…" Clemens sighed and shook his head. "I've got thirty one boys up there from las' night, an' I should've got thirty one dollars total…"

"This morning? How much ya got?"

"Twenty."

"_What_?" Spot hurried over and scanned the coins and dollar bills, counting them all quickly in his mind and adding it all up. He scanned the list of tenants; they were all the usual boys, minus a couple, but that was normal.

"I didn't heah nobody breakin' in or else I woulda woken up," said Clemens. He walked over to the doorway and checked the lock. He did the same with the windows.

"If no one broke in, Conlon, it's gotta be someone upstairs."

Spot was taken aback. His trust in his boys shot up a wall of defense at Clemens's accusation. How could he think any one of Spot's boys would do such a thing? Clemens responded to this with a raise of his eyebrows and visible stiffness as he raised his arms so that his palms faced upward.

"They ain't gonna tell me the truth, so I'm askin' fer you to beat it outta them or somethin'," said Clemens.

Spot snorted a laugh.

"I'm serious, boy. If you can't tell me who took my money then I'm throwin' all 'a you out on the street by tonight."

Spot clenched his jaw, staring down the old man, who stared right back with the same intensity he had. Fighting the urge to respond with a quick snap, he nodded, said he understood, and walked upstairs.

* * *

Bolt watched as Spot, half-asleep it seemed, made his way downstairs to talk to Clemens. His heart beat faster at the blatant lie he had told his best friend--his brother--and waited until he heard no more creaking footsteps. He made sure McCroy and Diggins were fast asleep still, and he could tell the all-nighter wasn't going to wake them up soon, and he opened the door to the utility closet.

Johnny was snoring loudly. Emma, sitting crouched in a ball, looked up at Bolt through puffy, red eyes with a look of fleeting hope behind her misery. Beyond that, though, Bolt had forgotten just what she looked like; it had been three years since she saw him, and he had to admit, she grew into a beautiful young woman in that time.

"Come with me, do not make a sound," he warned.

Emma said nothing as she pushed herself up. She followed Bolt's motions out the window and crawled out of it.

"What're you doing?" she asked once he joined her on the fire escape and shut the window.

"Heah." Bolt pulled out a wad of single dollar bills wrapped in a rubber band. He tucked them into the pocket of her skirt.

"Get off! What is this?" asked Emma, disgusted, pulling out the money.

"Go home," demanded Bolt hurriedly.

Emma looked at him in protest, "No."

"Yes. Or Manhattan or Queens, wherever, just get outta Brooklyn, Emma!"

"You told 'im, didn't you? Told 'im I was here and he told you to send me away, didn't he?" She looked up at Bolt with contempt and defiance. She placed her hand on her hip and chucked the roll of money behind her onto the street without glancing behind her.

"Emma! That was, like, eleven dollars!"

"I don't care if it was a thousand, Bolt, you're doing all his dirty work! Now I came here to see Spot and you'd better let me talk to him or else!"

"Or else what, Emma? What's it gonna solve? Ya know, it ain't good fer either 'a you to see each other and it ain't good fer Brooklyn! You don' know what kinda danger you put yerself in with Spot nowadays."

"I grew up with the bastard, I think I know what makes him tick, alright?"

"Not from him, Emma, from other gangs an' territories. Brooklyn's tougher than they used to be now that Conlon's in charge. I gotta admit, without you bein' 'is soft spot, he's gotten real cold the past years. Not to mention you don't wanna bring up all those emotions again. Conlon ain't the same person he used to be, he ain't gonna walk right up to you, give you a big kiss, and things're gonna go back to normal. There's no tellin' what he'd do if he saw you again and I tried to cover fer you. For yer own sake, get out of Brooklyn. Please."

Emma hesitated. She soaked in the words Bolt said to her and considered them. Bolt glanced back and saw McCroy and Diggins starting to wake up. Though unwilling to submit to him, she nodded stiffly.

"I'm going to Sonny's. Meet me there on your lunch break," she told him.

"No, Sonny's is shut down, meet me at the restaurant across the street from your old place."

He hurried her down the steps, and before he shoved her off the final step, he placed his hat atop her head and told her to try and disguise herself. She hurried off onto the street and out of his sight. His heart raced wildly, the feeling of betrayal sticking to his insides. _Liar._

He rushed up the steps just as Spot opened the window.

"What're ya doin', Bolt?" asked Spot, squinting in the dawn's sunlight.

"I was, uh, just checkin' fer signs 'a the break-in…Clues, er anythin'…"

Spot looked around. "Find anythin'?"

Bolt shook his head and crawled meekly back up the steps, feeling as small as ever.


	26. The Only Place You Ever Called Home

**Part II, Chapter VIII**

**April 10, 2007**

**Brooklyn, New York**

Spot walked up and down, slowly for effect. His arms were crossed over his chest and his lips bore a pursed, disappointed frown as if a father were talking to disobeying his children.

"We could be heah all day, boys," Spot spoke in front of the silent line of boys who had all slept in the bunkroom that night. "That means no papes, no money, no food, no nothin', until one 'a you fesses up to takin' the money from Clemens."

The boys shifted in their stances. A few looked around through the corners of their eyes. Bolt sat on the bunk behind Spot. His heart beat rapidly as he patted his sweating forehead. The guilt within him was growing and he tried his best to fight off the truth, for inside his head he was screaming, "It's Emma! Emma's back!" Instead he swallowed it down and hung his head low.

Spot sighed exaggeratedly. He shook his head. He looked at Bolt and shrugged subtly. Bolt licked his lips and thought quickly.

"Ya know, McCroy an' Diggins was sleepin' this morning," said Bolt quietly.

"Yeah, they was, weren't they?"

Spot grunted angrily and stomped down the line of boys, grabbing McCroy and Diggins each by the arm without breaking stride until they reached the end of the bunkroom near the closet. The line did not move, and instead each boy leaned over to get a better view. Spot threw the two night guards against the window.

"How long you guys sleep, huh? Answer me!"

"Fer like a minute, Conlon, I swears!" answered Diggins.

"Yeah, it wasn't till sun-up! Johnny didn't go nowheres!" added McCroy.

Spot let go and threw open the closet door. Johnny cowered further back into the closet, his huge, frightened eyes looking up at the boy towering over him. Spot picked up Johnny by his collar and shoved him against the wall, the wooden shelves stabbing into the smaller boy's back unforgivably.

"I swear to God, if you lie to me Johnny, I'm gonna blow yer tiny brains out, a'right?" threatened Spot. "Ya got that so far?"

Johnny had squinted his eyes in fear and quivered as he replied, "Y-Yeah! I got that!"

"Did you take the money? "

"No! Swear to God! I swears! I was in heah all night!"

Spot tried to figure out the expression on Johnny's twisted face. Johnny opened his eyes, cautiously, and looked at Spot directly in the eye, and answered honestly, though weakly, "I swear I didn't take it. Jus' put me down, please…"

The stench of the closet then suddenly became aware to Spot. The smell of urine stung his nose when he realized he had scared Johnny so much that he actually wet himself. He dropped Johnny to the floor and stormed out of the closet.

"Clean him up," he said to McCroy and Diggins. "_Now_. I can't take smellin' that shit."

McCroy and Diggins jumped to order and began carrying it out.

Spot stomped back to the bunkroom where the boys quickly readjusted and snapped to attention. At the start of the lineup Spot stopped and held out his palm.

"Gimme yer weapons," he ordered calmly.

"Conlon--" interrupted Bolt.

"Gimme yer weapons," he repeated, louder and with more conviction.

The first boy Spot had approached looked around and handed over his pocketknife. The next boy handed him a slingshot. He went down the line collecting similar items--pistols, marbles, blades. He handed them to Bolt when he had too much to carry, and they stashed them on top of Spot's mattress.

"A'right! You boys can leave now," shouted Spot as soon as he was finished.

They all looked around, concerned.

"Conlon, we can't go out there unarmed!" spoke up one boy.

"Yeah, that's a death sentence!" piped another.

"Well, unless someone tells me they took the money, then you boys bettah be extra careful not to get yourselves into trouble then!"

Spot turned and stormed out of the bunkroom and downstairs. The boys were livid, pointing fingers, and shouting at one another. Bolt slowly walked backward as if trying to hide from the rest of the newsies. He stumbled onto his bed, speechless, watching.

* * *

Corwell Bakery looked better than it did three years ago. Emma didn't want to admit that. But it was. She stood in the middle of the street, arms folded over her chest, allowing strangers to bump right into her. She hadn't expected to be filled with such emotion, but it was as if a good, gentle wind could knock her right off her feet. This surely wasn't her home anymore.

"It ain't goin' anywhere the more ya stare at it."

Emma turned to face Bolt.

"It's just strange," Emma said quietly. "It's strange to see…different people behind the counter, it's strange to see different curtains in the windows up there."

Bolt placed a gentle hand on her arm and turned her toward the restaurant where they had agreed to meet. They sat in a booth, neither saying much. Emma stirred around the contents of her soup, occasionally biting off pieces of bread and watching Bolt pour more coffee into his mug.

"What's your plan?" asked Emma.

Bolt looked up, offended. "What's _your_ plan, is more like it?"

"My plan's to see Spot and talk to him. Obviously you're keeping me from doing that, so I'm asking you, what's your plan?"

"I'm still tryin' to figure out why you're heah. Why would you wanna talk to Spot? Don' tell me it's to rehash the past or talk fondly 'a the memories, er else you wouldn't 'a tried sneakin' into the lodging house and you wouldn't 'a broken down cryin' when I saw ya."

Emma blinked, her throat suddenly dry.

"What's really goin' on?" Bolt leaned closer to the table to make better eye contact.

Pressing her lips together, Emma broke his gaze and stared at the wooden table surface. She was back in her bedroom, a coffee stain on her slip dress, sitting on her bed while Peter was bent down on one knee before her. She felt the naked, exposed feeling now just as she did then. The image of Peter's eyes staring longingly into hers made her look away immediately.

"I never answered him."

"Huh?" asked Bolt, confused.

Emma shook her head and responded, "There's this boy in Philadelphia…"

"Oh Jesus…" Bolt sank all the way back into the cushioned seat and covered his face with his hands.

"Hey! You asked why I'm here and I'm telling you."

"Go on," groaned Bolt, his face still hidden in his hands.

"Peter Crenshaw is a boy from Philadelphia that…I feel forced to be with him. He's a family friend, and he's so sweet and nice and I know there'd be security with him, so it all makes sense to be with him. But…I don't think anyone's looking out for what I want. Bolt, I can't bring myself to do it. I can't marry him. I won't do it."

"Emma, seein' Spot ain't gonna make yer decision any easier. It's just gonna confuse things. You can't run away from yer problems like this."

"I'm not running away!" snapped Emma.

"Yes, you are! Ya don' wanna be with the guy from Philly so ya came back to the only place you evah called home, hopin' Spot would change things for you an' he'd take care 'a yer Philly problem."

"I don't expect him to take care of my Philly problem at all. I don't even want 'im to take Peter's place--"

"Yeah ya do--"

"No! Bolt, do you remember at all what he did to me? He made no time for me anymore, he cheated on me with that girl from Sonny's. He kicked me to the side and didn't even give a shit."

"Didn't give a shit? Who was it, then, tryin' to get on that train the day ya left?"

Emma glared at Bolt without giving an answer.

"Ya still have feelings fer Spot and it's obvious. I'm not gonna stop you from feelin' that way. I ain't gonna let ya walk back into Brooklyn, though, and especially back into Spot's life. Obviously ya ain't goin' anywheres, though, so if ya gotta see Spot so bad, yer gonna need my help."

Emma's foot rattled nervously and angrily underneath the table, fighting the urge to say, "To hell with you," to Bolt, and hearing him out instead.

"Well, what do we do then?"

"I think we should first get ya somewhere to stay. Some 'a the newsies don' stay in the lodging house so we'll find someone who'll let ya stay with them a while. Don't talk about Spot to anyone. _Anyone_. Seriously. I'll set up a meeting between you an' Spot so it ain't a shock when he first sees ya. A'right?"

Emma nodded slowly, solemnly. She looked at Bolt when it became very clear: Here was someone who was actually looking out for her.

* * *

A/N: This story can do better than two reviews per chapter. Feedback/thoughts/interpreations are essential to keeping this story alive!


	27. Great Escape

Part II, Chapter IX

April 11, 1902

Brooklyn, New York

Lucky poked his head around the corner of the warden's office. His shaking hands made the soup on the tray he was holding spill a few drops over the rim of the bowl. The warden Reynolds looked up through glaring eyes at the noise of the rattling tea cup just outside his office door. 

"Well, don't just stand there, boy, I'm hungry!" he snapped.

Lucky felt a nudge from behind him and he walked into the room. He stared at the soup. Swiftly and without making eye contact, he set the tray onto Reynolds's desk, and turned on his heels.

"Hey!"

Stopping on the dime, Lucky spun back around. Reynolds pointed to his soup and the trembling newsie felt his heart jump into his throat.

"Forgot my spoon," finished Reynolds with a condescending tone.

Lucky nodded and rushed out the door. As soon as he turned down the hallway, he was faced with a spoon. Three of the Brooklyn boys who had been arrested at Sonny's stared at him with a combination of encouragement and earnestness. Lucky swallowed his heart down his throat and grabbed the spoon, which one of the boys had given him, to return it to Reynolds, who sighed with impatience.

"It's been twenty minutes, he's gotta be out soon," commented Eyes. He squinted as hard as he could from the top of the staircase into the small window of Reynolds's office door. The warden sat at his desk, scanning the account book and thumbing through bills and coins.

"Tricks, ya put it in there, right?" asked Eyes doubtfully.

"Yeah, I put in double what ya told me!" answered Tricks, crouched behind him.

The dozen boys who were captured that night had had their eyes glued to the warden's office, waiting, as if it were their last hope. Then, Reynolds stopped moving. He stared in front of him, his eyes glazed over, slowly slumping forward onto his desk. His eyelids fluttering, he lost grip of the money and his head hit the surface with a thud, and he was unconscious.

"He's out, he's out!" cried Eyes, leaping up.

"Twist, go!" called Tricks.

The small boy ran towards the window; daunting, black bars quartering the inmates inside were nothing but a task to Twist. He took his screwdriver and twisted the heads of the nails around at lightning fast speed.

"Don't get flustered, he'll be out a good hour at least," said Tricks.

Twist did not listen and worked quickly and efficiently, undoing the nails fervently. He caught the structure of bars and set them on a nearby bunk so as not to make a noise dropping it to the floor. Twist leaned his entire body out the window and gave a thumbs-up to the rooftop.

"A'right, we're dropping down the ropes!" called Spot in a loud whisper.

One by one, the dozen Brooklyn boys shimmied down the side of the building holding onto the ropes. Bolt stood waiting to greet them when they got to the bottom. He stood next to the entrance to the jail with his arm outstretched at the ready for anyone to exit.

"Hope yer stay was nice, boys!" said Bolt as the first boys dropped down. "Welcome back to freedom."

Bolt watched each newsie who landed on the street with a sigh of relief. He looked up at Spot, who was safe from hearing distance, and waited for one boy in particular to drop down.

"Eyes…c'mere a second…"

Bolt explained to the fifteen-year old--who had acquired his own seedy apartment with a group of other boys who worked in factories around Brooklyn--that he needed a favor. He told him his sister was visiting him and that there was no way he was going to let her stay in the bunkroom. He would pay for her board; he just wanted to keep her safe.

"Yeah, 'a course, no problem," answered Eyes.

"She's at the lodging house right now in the utility closet in the bunkroom."

Eyes looked puzzled and somewhat shocked. "What…Why?"

"Don't ask questions, I don't got time to explain, a'right? I need you to get back to the lodgin' house an' take 'er home with you. Don't tell anyone what yer doin', and if they ask just tell 'em yer doin' me a favor. Okay?"

Eyes looked suspicious and agreed hesitantly, "Okay…Can we talk about this more tomorrow then?"

"Yeah, yeah, just go!"

Bolt pushed him down the street toward the lodging house where the rest of the captured had already started running.

* * *

Emma felt her stomach lurch with hunger.

"I can't believe they do this to people like you," she said to Johnny, whom she could not see in the pitch black space of the cramped closet.

"People like me?"

"Yeah, I mean, you had to have done _something_ to be treated like this. What, did you not sell enough papers or something?" Emma breathed a cynical, pathetic laugh and shook her head.

Johnny sighed helplessly and replied, "No. They all think it was me who called the cops on 'em when they was at Sonny's the night it got shut down."

"What? You got Sonny's shut down?" Her voice rose slightly with feeling.

"No! That's the thing. I was in the neighborhood but I didn't do nothin' like that."

"So why'd they kidnap you and throw you in here if you didn't do it?"

"'Cause I was in the neighborhood when it happened and I'm from Crown Heights. Why would they believe me?" said Johnny with a tone that suggested she was slow to pick up on the concept.

"Yeah, I got that, but didn't you tell 'em it wasn't you? No offense, but it doesn't seem like you'd be the type to piss off Spot Conlon or _any_ of his boys…"

"Exactly, I'm not! I would nevah get myself mixed up with a guy like Conlon. Ya know the reputation he's got? He'll kill ya soon as look at ya, an' if anythin' happened to 'is boys, yer definitely dead. Frankly I think I'm gettin' treated like royalty."

"_Royalty_? You've gone out of this closet only a few times in almost a week, and they're not even feeding you. They're treating you like some kind of prisoner--"  
"You don't know Spot Conlon! Ya know, I can see why they'd think I called the cops. Spot's got a long list 'a gangs on 'is bad side, it's only fittin' he'd scope out the first person he saw that night and try to take 'em out. Not to mention, Spot don't like Crown Heights 'cause it ain't _his_, an' I really think they'se just keepin' me heah to prove somethin', not that his sterling reputation needs any improvin'."

Emma heard Johnny loud and clear. Spot was just trying to prove something by holding Johnny captive. The familiar feeling of anger slowly trickled into her stomach as the memories of young Spot rising to power filled her mind. She always tried to keep him in line--she hated when he got too cocky. It disgusted her. She could only imagine what the older, more powerful Spot Conlon would be like now.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. Believe it or not, I know how you feel," said Emma solemnly.

"Uh, how could ya _possibly_ know how I feel?"

"Because I know Spot better than anyone. I was there for his beginnings. I've seen him fail. I've seen him be human. You said Spot was trying to prove something--I know exactly what you mean by that."

Johnny paused and shifted around on the floor.

"Who exactly are you?"

"My name's--"

"Emma?" asked a new voice with a knock on the door.

She rose hesitantly and answered, "Yeah?"

"It's Eyes."

"Who?"

"Bolt sent me to get you."

Eyes opened the closet door and half-smiled. He motioned toward the window and told her to keep quiet. Emma waved goodbye to Johnny and stepped onto the windowsill. As they started down the fire escape, Eyes pulled her back and looked at her appearance. He adjusted her hat so that it dipped lower down her face and you couldn't see her eyes.

"Bolt said to keep ya hidden. Yer stayin' with me. You'se got one protective brother, that's fer damn sure," said Eyes.

As they jogged along the street in the dead of night, Eyes asked her curiously, "So, where ya from?"

"Brooklyn."

"Really?"

"No. Philly," corrected Emma, remembering Bolt insisting on protecting her identity. "Born here, raised in Philly."

"Raised? Bolt's got parents?"

"Uh, yeah…By 'raised,' I meant…orphanage."

"Ah. I see. Any reason why Bolt's got ya all protected an' shit? He seemed pretty serious when he asked fer the favor."

Emma shook her head. "That's just Bolt."

They arrived at the apartment building. Emma was amazed at how much of an immigrant she felt like, being tossed into a new Brooklyn. Her heart beat rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. She followed Eyes up a creaking staircase, leaping over a drunkard and avoiding a few missing steps. Eyes lived on the last floor at the end of the narrow, humid hallway. The door had no lock. Eyes opened it and immediately called to the rest of the apartment, "It's me, Eyes, an' my favorite food is pickles."

"A'right, c'mon in," answered a male voice.

"Welcome back!" came another.

"Damn, Conlon took a while gettin' you out, didn't he?" said the third.

Eyes opened the door to a one-bedroom apartment where four mattresses lay in a square in the bare living room. Three boys looked up to see their last roommate had returned and greeted him with handshakes and jokes. They each took one look at Emma and fell silent. Emma smiled awkwardly with her cheeks and took off her hat, as if wearing it inside wasn't polite.

"Guys, this is Bolt's sistah, an' she's gotta stay with us fer a while," started Eyes. "Bolt's payin' fer her board and he don' want 'er stayin' at the lodgin' house."

"Yeah, all those boys gettin' lonely shackin' up with a bunch of other guys…I see why Bolt's hidin' her," said one of the roommates jokingly.

"What's yer name, goil?" asked another.

"Emma?" asked the third.

She snapped her head to the direction of the speaker. Sitting up near the kerosene lamp in the middle of the room, Thompson stared at her, wide-eyed and mouth agape. She stared right back, and, strangely, she felt the corners of her lips curve upward. Thompson smiled back.

"Oh, goodness, Thompson!" she cried, falling onto his mattress in a hug.

Emma wasn't particularly close with Thompson when she knew him years ago, but he was the only one in Brooklyn who seemed happy to see her. His embrace was close, meaningful, too.

"What're ya doin' back heah, ya crazy goil?" he asked, laughing. He pulled her into a hug again, but only to speak secretly in her ear, "God knows you ain't Bolt's sistah, what's goin' on?"

"I'll tell you later," she whispered back. She pulled away and felt her eyes well with warm tears.

"A'right, everyone, this is Emma," said Thompson more formally to the group. "Ya heard what Eyes said, keep this one safe! Lord knows what Bolt would do if anythin' happened to 'er."

Thompson winked and Eyes showed Emma his mattress in one of the corners. It was directly under a window, and when Emma laid down she could feel a warm breeze on her face. Eyes had given up his bed and she gave him her pillow and one of the blankets.

Before the lamp burned out in the room, Emma looked around Eyes's corner. It was wallpapered with newspaper clippings of places out West and pictures of famous girls he had evidently found attractive. There was a picture of four young children, one of them looking like a young Eyes, and two parents. There was a nail sticking out of the wall, and dangling from it was a necklace that looked very feminine. She was eager to find out the necklace's origin, but Eyes had already dozed off; but after thinking about it, she found it wasn't the story behind it that made her curious. The fact that Eyes kept small things and trinkets near and dear to him, and called this place home filled her with a sense of comfort. She smiled, made herself more comfortable, and waited for the lamp to die out before shutting her eyes and falling asleep.


	28. Captive

-1**April 12, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

It was in his bones. In the pit of his stomach.

_Something's not right._

It was in his mind. Spot Conlon was so connected to Brooklyn, he innately sensed something was wrong. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Conlon, we'se got company," said Tricks, appearing behind Spot, who sat, almost hidden, behind a throne of crate boxes overlooking the Hudson.

Spot turned and first saw his newsies swarming toward the street. He stepped up onto a box for a better view and noticed four, surly boys stomping toward him without breaking stride or letting the intimidation of the group of boys throw them off. Spot knew at once it was Crown Heights. He crossed his arm over his chest tightly and rotated his head so that his neck cracked loudly.

Tricks marched right up to the first boy from Crown Heights--clearly the leader--and socked him in the face. The boy reeled backward and caught his balance as his boys shoved Brooklyn newsies out of the way in defense. Tricks spat in the leader's face, and the latter returned with a punch to Tricks's stomach.

"Break it up, break it up!" shouted Twist. He worked his way through the group of bloodthirsty, anxious boys and yanked Tricks out of the middle.

"C'mon, let 'em talk to Conlon first…" reasoned Twist. He turned to his fellow newsies and muttered, "…_Then _we can hang 'em from the docks."

"Fuckin' right, Twist!"

"Yeah, get these cunts outta our turf!"

Spot Conlon watched from his perch and moved not a muscle. He whistled between his lips and the boys snapped to attention, letting the boys from Crown Heights walk toward the Brooklyn king.

"Mornin', fellas," said Spot coldly. "What the hell're you doin' on my turf?"

"Who the hell d'ya think ya are kidnappin' my boy Johnny, Conlon?" asked the Crown Heights leader, standing in the shade of Spot's towering shadow over him.

"Who the hell d'ya think I am, Jinx? _I'm Brooklyn_. Your boy Johnny crossed Brooklyn. I got every right to do what I did."

"Right er wrong, you'se gonna hand 'im over. Now."

Jinx's fists clenched and his breaths came in and out harshly through his flared nostrils. Spot glared directly back and answered, "How d'ya know I ain't already killed 'im?"

"'Cause that'd be too easy, Conlon. I don't care how much 'a Brooklyn you think you own, you don't own Crown Heights. Johnny didn't even do nothin'!"

Spot jumped down onto the docks so that he was eye level with Jinx now. Jinx couldn't help it: he flinched.

"Is that right?" asked Spot, getting uncomfortably close to his opponent's face. "Boys, any 'a you heard 'a this place Crown Heights? I sure as hell ain't!"

The boys followed along, shrugging and exaggerating their ignorance to the territory.

"Where exactly is that, again?" played one boy.

"Yeah, who's this guy think he is?"

"Don't he know who he's talkin' to?"

"Nope, he sure as hell don't!" answered Spot, smirking heartlessly into Jinx's menacing face.

The Crown Heights boy paused, staring back with daggers, until he responded, "All's I'm gonna say is, if you don't give Johnny back right now, this ain't ovah between us. I'm gonna make you regret that decision, Conlon."

Spot suddenly crashed his knuckle into Jinx's nose and replied icily, "I don't regret nothin'."

* * *

"You stopped selling papers," said Emma to Thompson as she sat up in Eyes' bed at dawn the next morning. "Why?"

Thompson shoved his foot into his boot, starting on the laces. "Wasn't makin' enough money. Workin' at the factory gets me three times as much in a day as I did hawkin' the headlines."

Emma looked out the window. Visible in the distance was the harbor.

"That must've been an earful for Spot to hear. What'd he say when you told him?"

"Well," sighed Thompson, "he didn't take it good. He said I might as well be dead to him 'cause he couldn't see how anyone would turn their back on they brothers like that."

"But you didn't, exactly, did you?"

"No. Spot don't like bein' told somethin' that ain't exactly what he thinks. I mean, the boy sure likes a good fight, but not with his own. He was pissed. Still is. Almost all the boys except fer Eyes've disowned me."

"Because what Spot says goes, right?" Emma shook her head. "I can't believe that. Disowning you is disloyalty in itself."

Thompson laced up his other shoe and hopped up to his feet and sighed, "Yeah, unfortunately Spot don't think that way anymore."

"Yeah, I suppose he was logical at one point in his life, right?" laughed Emma.

Thompson half-smiled at her and buttoned the rest of his shirt. He looked at her and replied, "He was. But he had you around to talk sense into him."

Emma said nothing but merely looked at Thompson. He waved goodbye and exited the apartment. Eyes and their other roommates had left already that morning. Emma crawled into a ball and rested her head on the mattress. She closed her eyes and let herself travel back, years ago.

_Spot shrugged and sat up straight. His eyes traveled upward as if to the sky and his chest puffed out arrogantly before answering, "Apparently I'm hot shit."_

_Emma rolled her eyes and punched him in the chest. Spot immediately hunched his shoulders and he let out a breath of air. Offended, he rubbed the spot she had hit him and cursed._

_"Damn, what was that for?"_

_"Bein' a cocky bastard."_

_"Hey, ya gotta let me know now if ya can't handle me movin' up in the ranks, Em. Honestly."_

She laughed out loud to herself. A knock came to the door and Emma sat up, hesitating to say anything. It opened slowly and Bolt poked his head around with a tired smile.

"Haven't you slept, Bolt?" greeted Emma impulsively.

He shook his head. "You exhaust me."

"Thank you. I tend to get that a lot."

"A'right, heah's what's goin' on: as I was walkin' down heah, I noticed a group 'a Crown Heights boys stompin' off toward the docks. I'm almost positive they'se gonna start some kinda battle between us an' them, so just stay in heah while I think 'a somethin' bettah to do," said Bolt groggily.

Emma was grateful for all he had been doing, but she couldn't help but pout like a little girl not being able to stick to her original plan--which wasn't well thought-out in the first place.

"Sorry," said Bolt half-heartedly.

"I understand. From what I've been hearing, Spot's some kind of monster now and I see what you mean about enemies. But, really, does anyone else even know who I am? Or that I'm even connected to Spot? How would I be doing any damage at all?"

"Ehh…" Bolt threw his hands into the air. "I don't wanna take that risk."

Emma sighed and laid back down. Her lack of response led Bolt to believe their conversation was over. He said goodbye, told her he would come back when he could, and left the apartment. It wasn't long, though, when Emma decided she was going to go crazy stuck in that apartment all alone for the rest of the day. She felt, in a very strange way, it was as if Spot was holding _her_ captive too. Immediately she hated that notion, that Spot had control over her. So she grabbed her shoes, tucked her long blonde hair underneath Bolt's cap, and headed out the door.

The street was refreshing, even amid the hoards of people and deafening noises. She kept her eyes down the entire time, being slightly obedient to Bolt's requests. Quite frankly, all she needed was to get out of the apartment. The open space, even in the crowded city, felt good, and before she realized it, she had walked for hours.

"I can't believe Conlon's got our weapons. Might as well give myself up now to bein' soaked."

Emma's eyes glanced to the corner of the street she was on. Two boys stood talking animatedly.

"Yeah, and what the hell, Bolt couldn't 'a helped?" said the other.

"He tried but all he said was 'Conlon,' like some pussy. He just sat there. Didn't even try talkin' sense into Conlon and he wasn't even there when Crown Heights came to the docks this morning."

"What the hell? He ain't even tryin' to help us out. Ya think it was him who took the money?"

Emma felt a pang of guilt. She had pitched a roll of bills onto the street when Bolt had tried to give it to her. She knew it was him. What had Bolt done to get that money?

"No, I can't imagine Bolt doin' somethin' like that. Wasn't _you_ who took the money, was it?"

"No! What the hell? Why would ya ask me that?"

The boy shrugged.

"Was it you?"

The boy shook his head. "Clemens guards that money with 'is life. Whoever did musta been real slick. But looks like we'se sleepin' on the street tonight."

"Goddamn."

The newsies walked away. Emma searched her memory and recollected that Clemens was the caretaker of the lodging house. She hung her head low when she realized that Bolt had stolen money from him in order to take care of her. He had lied to Spot--something Bolt would never sink low enough to do--and was now inadvertently turning the newsies against each other. All of this to protect her.

Emma popped her head up. All of this to protect her? No, to drive her away from Spot. What had she needed Bolt for in the first place? His help? Help with _what_,exactly? She hadn't gotten the chance to even see Spot ever since he had been "helping her," and it was doubtful to her that that was even going to happen even if he did say he would arrange a "meeting."

She folded her arms over her chest and started stomping down the street. It wasn't as if her intention was to come back to Brooklyn to rip Spot to shreds. How was her presence going to create that much of an impact anyway? To her, it wasn't going to at all. All she wanted was to talk to him. And if that wasn't going to happen with Bolt's help, then she would just have to do it herself.


	29. Traitor

**Part II, Chapter XI**

**April 12, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

"Where the hell's Bolt?" asked Spot.

Twist shrugged. "I ain't seen 'im all morning."

"Yeah, me neither. He's actin' all weird, he's up to something'. I can feel it."

Spot smacked the restroom stall door. The boy inside flinched audibly and Spot said to him, "Johnny, hurry up in there, I don't wanna stand heah all day!"

Johnny said nothing but flushed the toilet. He crept out of the stall and Spot grabbed the back of his collar, walking him back into the closet.

"Got a little visit from yer friends today! Fer some reason, they miss you ovah in the Heights," said Spot.

Johnny perked up at the mention of Crown Heights, and asked, "What'd they say?"

"Well, they ain't too happy about yer vacation in Brooklyn, let's just put it that way. But I don't plan on sending you away anytime soon. I'm still not ovah the fact you snitched."

"I didn't snitch!" cried Johnny exhaustedly as Spot slammed the door closed.

Twist sighed and shook his head. He and Spot took a seat outside the closet and returned to their conversation.

"So Bolt's been actin' up, has he? I kinda noticed too. He ain't been around heah er the docks a whole lot. I don't even think he's been sellin' any papes. Have you seen 'im?"

Spot shook his head and replied, "Not really. I can't imagine this whole Crown Heights thing's been what's drivin' him crazy, ya know? I mean, does he even know about Crown Heights comin' down to the docks? I doubt it! He's second-in-command 'a Brooklyn, does he know what that means, Twist? Jesus. I don't even know what to think."

There was silence for a few, long moments. Then suddenly, a muffled voice broke it.

"_Why don't'cha ask Emma?"_

Spot stared at the closet door.

"What?" he asked slowly.

"_That girl who tried sneakin' in the other night. She said she knows you, why don't'cha ask her?_"

Spot stood up slowly, his eyes now glaring at the door. He opened it and stared at the meek form of Johnny, who looked up at Spot through squinted eyes. His jaw unhinged and closed again, searching for words in his racing mind.

"How d'you…What…" stuttered Spot, his heart starting to beat faster, his breath growing shorter with every passing second. "What're ya talkin' about?"

Johnny gave Spot a puzzled look and couldn't figure out why the Brooklyn leader was acting with such vivid emotion, that his stoic façade was suddenly shattered with the mere mention of Emma.

"Why did you say her name?" demanded Spot suddenly. His voice had jumped octaves and startled Johnny and Twist.

"I--I--I met Emma, she was in heah last night. Bolt brought 'er heah when everyone else left--"

"Bolt?!"

"Yeah! Eyes came an' picked 'er up! That's all I know!"

Johnny slinked back further into the corner of the closet, fearing the possible repercussions of such knowledge. Spot's face twisted into a combination of confusion and anger, and his clenched fist shook at his side while his eyes searched around the room aimlessly.

"Conlon?" asked Twist. "Ya a'right?"

"This is…I can't even…" panted Spot. "I gotta find Bolt."

Spot sprinted out of the bunkroom and bounded outside. He roamed the street frantically, thinking of any place Bolt might be located. All the while, he asked himself questions he couldn't imagine the answers to. What was Emma doing in the closet last night? Had she really tried to sneak in? Had Bolt known something about it? Why would he keep it from him?

Spot found Bolt walking out of Eyes's apartment building. He turned and saw Spot stomping toward him fast, with a stern, malicious expression taking over his entire face.

"Conlon--"

_SMACK_.

Bolt reeled backward and stumbled to the ground after Spot delivered an unexpected yet brutal punch to his nose. With no time to pause and question him, Bolt rolled over to dodge another hit. He jumped to his feet and tasted the blood dripping onto his lips. Spot charged at him once more and Bolt knocked him in the jaw. Bolt's balled up fists shook as Spot swiftly retrieved his slingshot and fastened it with a marble, the band stretched taut and merely inches from Bolt's face. The second-in-command gulped and glared at his opponent.

"Gonna shoot me, Conlon?"

"You know 'bout Emma?" demanded Spot.

Bolt's face fell, his shoulders slumping, his neck shifting downward.

"What--the _hell_--is goin' on?" shouted Spot. "Answer me, Bolt!"  
"First of all," started Bolt, and he quickly knocked the slingshot out of Spot's hands before he could let go of the marble. "Don't point that shit in me."

"Swear to God, I'll load up another one 'less ya tell me what's goin' on!"

"A'right, what've you heard?"

Spot fumbled to get another marble, but within seconds he had his arm outstretched once more directed at Bolt.

"Johnny says she tried sneakin' in and you had Eyes take care of her. That true?"

"Yeah but--"

"It _is_ true! Why didn't you tell me? What is she back for?"

Bolt eyed the slingshot and replied, "I ain't sayin' another world till you get that outta my face!"

The two boys remained still, the Brooklyn leader starting to tremble at the realization of it all. He lowered his weapon but glared icily at Bolt, his jaw clenched and stinging from the hit, and heart racing wildly.

"Look," started Bolt, "Emma came back an' she's a huge mess. She's got this marriage problem back in Philly, an' when I first saw 'er she just started cryin' real hard, didn't know why she was back. We talked the next day and she said her plan was to come back heah and talk to you…"

"_Marriage_?"

"Yeah but she didn't say yes, er some shit. Anyway, I didn't think her walkin' back in heah unannounced without any real plan was a good idea, so I was hidin' her with Eyes an' Thompson. I was gonna tell you, I just had to find the right time but--"

"What the fu--"

"--but apparently she don't want my help anymore. I was just up there checkin' on her and I found a note sayin' she's doing things her way now. It's all messed up, I don't even know where she is now…This is what I didn't want happening…"

"Jesus, Bolt…What, you didn't think I could handle it?"

"No, Conlon, as a matter 'a fact, I didn't! You didn't see the guy I saw when Emma left that day, you didn't see the pieces she left you in! Hell, just the mention 'a her name makes you point a goddamn slingshot in my face!"

"I did that 'cause you lied to me, Bolt! You kept her from me! That's why I almost shot you, 'cause you'se a traitor to me now!"

"Traitor, Conlon? That's what I am?"

"Yes! You'se dead to me, Bolt. Suppose it was you, then, who took the money from Clemens?"

Bolt sighed and looked down.

"That's what I thought. Had a feelin' but I tried to convince myself Bolt would nevah do a thing like that. Obviously I was wrong." Spot spat at the ground near Bolt's feet. "Don't bother comin' back to the lodgin' house, don't bother sellin' papes, don't even act like you know me or _any_ 'a the guys! You'se a traitor, Bolt, an' you'se no part 'a Brooklyn anymore."

Spot turned on his heels and started trudging back toward the lodging house.

"Conlon, don't turn yer back on me like that! Think about who you're doin' that too!"

But Spot kept walking. He didn't break stride and he didn't look back. Bolt watched until he was completely out of sight until he turned his own back and walked away.


	30. The King's Weakness

**Part II, Chapter XII**

**April 12, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

The only thing preventing Emma from going inside was fear. As she stood across the street from the lodging house close to midnight, the only thing she felt was fear. What was Spot going to do when he saw her? She suddenly realized she had no idea. Was Bolt right?

Emma shook her head. No; she could do this, because three years of waiting were behind her. This was the moment. Right here. If only her feet would move. If only she stepped out of the darkness of the alleyway she was currently standing in. If only she could swallow down that last bit of hesitation, she could do it.

But just as she made her move, four boys rushed into the alley from behind her. Emma stepped outside, into the lightness of the street, and leaned her back against the building. She watched the boys zoom past her, apparently ignorant to her presence.

"This is it!" said one of them in a loud whisper, and he pointed to the second floor of the lodging house to the bunkroom. "They'se up there!"

"Got the rock, Roller?"

"Right heah, boss!"

"A'right, got the note attached?"

"Sure do!"

"Okay, we'se got yer back…"

The other boys drew knives and pistols, surrounding and protecting the boy with the rock. Emma drew back into the alley, shielded by the complete lack of light within the small space. Still, she watched with nervous anticipation.

When the coast was all clear, one of the boys hurled a baseball-sized rock into the air and in a second it shattered the window of the newsies' bunkroom.

"Direct hit!" shouted one of the boys on the street.

"Fuckin' right!"

"Take _that_, Conlon!"

Emma's heart leapt at the sound of Spot's name. As movement stirred quickly within the bunkroom and the light turned on, the four boys took off in a sprint down the street. Within seconds, newsies slid down the fire escape and stormed out the front door, looking all around and cursing at the tops of their lungs. Suddenly Emma felt herself run out of the alley, pointing in the direction the boys had gone, shouting, "That way! They want that way!"

Without even identifying the source, the boys sprinted down the street. Emma watched anxiously until she heard a familiar voice.

"Swear to God, those Crown Heights rats're gonna…"

Emma turned her face to the front door of the lodging house. Stopped in mid-sentence because his breath had suddenly been taken away, Spot stood in the doorway, facing Emma. Neither of them said a word; they only stared, motionless. The rock in Spot's hand--the one with the note attached that the boys had thrown--dropped from Spot's frozen fingers to the porch with a thud.

A few more boys bounded down the staircase and out the front door, stopping abruptly by Spot's still form.

"Conlon, it was them, wasn't it?!"

"Yeah, I can't believe their nerve!"  
Spot shook his head back to reality. He pointed down the street animatedly and ordered the boys to go after them. As the newsies left the porch of the lodging house, Emma came back to her breath. She felt a lump in her throat and suddenly felt herself take a dozen quick, running steps forward. She stopped abruptly when she noticed Spot hadn't moved at all.

"Em, I…" stuttered Spot.

Emma suddenly felt a jolt of reality. He didn't react the way she had, on some level, hoped he would; he wasn't ecstatic, overjoyed, and scooping her into his arms the way she had subconsciously imagined. Tears flooded her eyes. She took a few steps backward and even made to turn around.

"No, don't," he responded.

Spot reached out his arm instinctively as if to catch her. Emma spun and remained still on command. Spot stepped down the porch steps slowly, and Emma released light sobs which she tried her best to swallow. Her cheeks became drenched in tears as she fell to her knees, her shoulders hunched over and her head buried in her hands. Spot stared at her weak form, walking toward her, faster with each step.

He bent down and grabbed her shoulders. Emma looked up into his face through tear-filled eyes; it was not even close the monster she had imagined. He rested on his knees and held her face up to his, holding her wet cheeks. His breath was short now and his face was suddenly full of emotion.

"Don't…_evah_ leave me again, Emma," he said lowly, his voice breaking.

Emma smiled despite her quivering lips, and nodded over and over and over.

"D'you heah me?"

"_Yes_."

"'Cause you ain't goin' _anywhere_…now that I have you right now…I'm nevah letting go 'a you."

Emma buried her face into his chest, feeling the racing of his heart, wrapping her arms around him tighter than she had ever embraced him before in her life. Spot stood her up, held her close to his body, and roughly brushed the hair from her face. He bit down on his lip, looking at her earnestly.

"I'm holdin' on to you as long as I can, don't leave me like that again."

She nodded.

"Okay? Promise?"

"I promise!"

Without anything left to say, Spot gripped the back of her head tightly and kissed her. He kissed her for every day she was away, every word he had left unspoken, every mistake he wished he could have taken back. He kissed her and knew the only thing left to do in his life was to keep Emma the way he was now, to make sure time would never play the same trick on him again, to keep her close, to have, and to hold, for every moment for the rest of his life.

In that same moment, there was nothing in the world he cared for as much as the one person he had lived without for the past three years. A weakness touched his heart, and it suddenly seemed nothing mattered as much as she did. Not even Brooklyn.

* * *

**A/N: **Before you find me and burn my house down for not having updated the way I had promised, know that I am so deeply sorry for building up this whole "I'm on a roll!" kick, and not living up to it! I just moved out and into a new place and I'm still getting settled, getting used to a lonely old apartment by myself. I only as for reviews and forgiveness! 


	31. If Only If Only

**Part II, Chapter XIII**

**April 13, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

The sun had yet to rise but Bolt had a feeling it wouldn't at all that morning--he had been staring out the window the entire night. There hadn't been stars or a moon. It had been cloudy but refused to rain, and for a strange reason, it unnerved him. He rested his chin on the windowsill and sighed uneasily.

Eyes hadn't come back to the apartment that evening and it worried Bolt. He didn't want everyone else to disown Eyes only because he was staying with them in the same apartment he had set up for Emma, before she broke free and decided to do things her way. Bolt shook his head and buried his face in his arms as he sat in a ball next to the window. The only question plaguing him, after having replayed the string of events in his mind, was _What have I done?_

Moments later, the doorknob turned and the door crept open. Bolt, the only person who was in the apartment for the night, stood slowly and cautiously.

"Eyes…Favorite food pickles," panted Eyes as he walked in.

"Where ya been?"

"Well, do I got a story fer you…"

Eyes limped across the room and picked up the kerosene lamp on the way. He crashed onto his mattress and light to flood the corner of the room. He noticed Eyes's rough appearance: his shirt had been torn at the collar and sleeve, his lip was fat and bleeding, and his right eye was swollen half-way shut and colored purple and red. Sweat beaded at his forehead and lip, and trickled down to his heaving chest. Bolt saw the hints of more bruises and scrapes from the holes in his shirt.

"What happened?" inquired Bolt.

"A'right, so last night…I was in the bunkroom…we was just sittin' 'round, drinkin', playin' cards…real calm, nothing' goin' on…All 'a sudden this rock comes crashin' in from the window, hit me in the shoulder…so I pick it up, has a note taped to it. So Conlon marches over an' takes it form my hands."

"What'd it say?" pressed Bolt.

"Couldn't read it well, handwritin' was all messy, but Conlon read it to 'imself and jus' said, _Crown Heights_, so we'se all take off to run after 'em. Conlon gave back all they weapons last night, too, so they took 'em 'an we ran. First guys out ran the fastest an' I think they shot one 'a the guys runnin' away. But when we get there, they was waitin' for us. So the guys in front stopped real short and we all gathered up behind a building to make sure everythin' was all clear fer us to go in there. One 'a the kids backed into an alley and got grabbed from behind, so a few of us get in there to help 'im but Crown Heights, they was ready fer us, they were packed into the fuckin' alley and got two more of our guys…Couldn't believe it, we was so off-guard, they almost ambushed us!"

"Did they get hold of any more?"

"I think maybe they did…I mean, I can barely remembah, it's such a fuckin' blur right now…I can't even…we was so off-guard, Bolt, I'm ashamed…I don' even remembah seein' Conlon there, but I don' know if that's 'cause I was fightin' off these punks er what. Seriously, those Crown Heights boys are fuckin' crazy…they fight dirty, an' even they leadah was goin' right in there and roughin' up some 'a the younger fellas. It was awful…An' the worst part is we had to bail! They was pullin' out broken wood pieces, chains, anything they could get their hands on."

Eyes shook his head and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Bolt was speechless. He stared at the wall and let all the information spin around in circles in his mind. What bothered him most about Eyes' story was that he had no recollection of Spot being present.

"Shit, I almost forgot the worst part…They got hold 'a Johnny from the closet and took 'im back."

"What?"

"Yeah! We all ran back to the lodgin' house and Clemens was cleanin' up a bunch 'a broken glass downstairs and the bunkroom was a mess, all the mattresses cut up and bunks turned over and shit. Utility closet was open and no Johnny. Musta had a few boys stick 'round in hiding to take 'im back…Goddamn, we were so fuckin' unprepared, Bolt!"

Eyes got to his feet angrily and kicked at the wall. Bolt remained still and stared at the ground.

"I don' get that shit! Where the fuck was Conlon? He wasn't back at the lodgin' house when we got back."

Eyes angrily kicked at the wall. Bolt turned around and offered a sliver of hope, "Maybe he went uptown, talk to the boys ovah there."

"That's bullshit an' you know it, Bolt. Don't lie fer him. You know I think he's wrong but Conlon thinks you took the money an' kicked you out -- don't lie fer 'im when he betrayed you like that."

Bolt turned around at the accusation. He was ready to defend himself, to tell Eyes the real story, but he couldn't. He turned back around and shook his head. He felt his jaws clench and let the pain of his teeth crushing together envelope him. He grabbed the roots of his hair angrily until it hurt enough to let go. He exhaled a heavy breath and crawled over to the other side of the room to fall asleep without saying another word. Was this really his punishment? If only he had not tried protecting Emma and Spot from each other...Bolt shook his head. If only, if only...

* * *

Super short but I had to get back into this story somehow. More to come soon. Apologies for the absence. 


	32. Night

**Part II, Chapter XIV**

**April 13, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

They had walked for blocks in Brooklyn in the dead of night, and just before the sun came up, Spot arrived at a small inn he had frequented too many times right after Emma left. A full-figured, frizzy-haired woman opened the loosely boarded door. Her face at first wore a cranky expression, until she recognized Spot.

"Well, look who it is," she said, her tone similar to the way a relative would greet the family drunk.

"Mornin' Rosie." Spot smiled, almost shamefully, yet a smirk was hidden in his face.

Rosie took a look at Emma, who stood with her face buried in Spot's arm lovingly. Rosie nodded and ushered them inside.

"Been a while, Conlon," said Rosie quietly as Spot passed her in the narrow hallway, and she raised her eyebrow.

"Ah, ya missed me." Spot smirked and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Rosie led them down the cramped passage. Spot kept his eyes ahead, refusing to look into the rooms and possibly recognize one of the girls inside, powdering her face, rubbing coal heavily onto her eyelids, and tightening her corset. He had been that person without Emma, and they needed a place to sleep. He needed no gratification from anyone else anymore. But just before arriving at their room, a dark-haired, slender beauty left one of the rooms, her dress strap slinking off her shoulder and her hair disheveled. Spot stopped and bit his tongue. She searched for recognition in Spot's eyes but he had callously concealed it. He looked down and led Emma into their room.

"Money by Friday, Conlon," added Rosie. "An' don't try sneakin' off again without paying. Don't think I saw ya last time?"

Emma had not been affected by the inn in the slightest. She sighed, her lips spread a grin into her cheeks, and her eyes squinted in happiness. She stepped forward closer to him and her hands gently touched his face.

"You've aged," she said tenderly.

"I've aged?" asked Spot, his eyebrow quirking.

"Obviously you did in the last three years, but you're older. You seem exhausted, it's in your eyes."

Emma ran her hand over his face and brushed the hair from his eyes. She felt the roughness of his skin now, but it wasn't the texture that was rough; it was weathered, as if Spot had taken a beating. His jaw line was firm and distinguished, and his face had lost all childlike features. There was a faint scar above his eyebrow; Emma ran her fingers over it. She looked deep into his eyes and he was the same, but for a moment the façade, the icy layer that had held him for so long, it shattered, and he was different. He was vulnerable.

"Yes. You've aged."

Spot closed his eyes. He felt the softness of Emma's fingers running smoothly from his hairline to his collarbone. He placed his hands on her hips. He let them slide softly to her back, and he wrapped her into a tight embrace. He held her close enough to feel her heart beat, and it was calm and steady, much to his surprise, because his heart was beating wildly despite the peace she gave him.

"We can stay here, right?" asked Emma.

"Yeah, why d'ya think we got a room?"

"No, I want to stay here. Or at least with you. I'm not going back."

"To Philly?"

"It's not my home. I want to stay with you."

"I know ya do. I'm not goin' anywhere."

The next morning after sunrise--and much later than the morning edition of the newspaper was sold--Emma awoke in the cramped yet comfortable bedroom, between the thin sheets that failed to keep her warm at night. She snuggled closer to Spot and got cozy resting her head on his bare chest. She traced her fingers lightly across his stomach, along the definition of his muscles and along more scars. Some were faint and light, but there were few that even hurt to think about how they got there. She traced the ridges of the key--the key necklace she had left the day she and her parents moved to Philadelphia.

Spot moved at the faint tickle along his chest. He moaned groggily and slowly woke up.

"Hi," greeted Emma.

"Hey Em."

"Did you sleep okay? I'm not used to sleeping next to anyone anymore so I probably kicked a lot."

"Nah, you were perfect."

Emma crawled on top of Spot and lay on his stomach. He rubbed her back and took a closer look at the navy blue fabric.

"Ha…my shirt," observed Spot with a smirk.

Emma raised an eyebrow and said, "My key."

"You left it."

Emma nodded. "I'm sorry I never said goodbye."

Spot looked down at his chest and the necklace placed in her hand. Emma wore an expression of guilt as she rubbed the trinket in between her fingers.

"It wasn't really goodbye, though, was it?" replied Spot.

"No, I guess it wasn't."

Spot felt at the ground near the bed. He rolled over, stepped into his pants, and hoisted them up, letting his suspender straps fall carelessly to his sides. Groggily he made his way to the door, noticing the different scene at the inn. There were travelers in the rooms now, along the corridor and at the front desk. The girls were only there for certain visits, and Spot used to think of them as nocturnal creatures.

He couldn't get the thought of one out of his head; the dark-haired girl he had seen merely hours ago was someone he thought he could replace for Emma. Late one night, after he had so sincerely made love to her, as she lay in his arms wearing his shirt, it hit him that he was empty. No prostitute could fill that void, and so he left, without leaving any money, and ran until his legs gave out. The sun came up then, and everything changed. He had realized he would never be the same.

In the washroom there stood a boy of his age slumped over the sink. After hearing Spot's entrance, he straightened up and splashed water onto his face. He nodded to Spot as he passed by and dried his face with a towel. Spot washed his hands in the sink a few minutes later as the boy tucked his light brown hair underneath his hat, looking at himself in the mirror. It looked like he had gotten no sleep.

"There's a diner 'round the corner out there," suggested Spot, nodding to the window. "They'se got some coffee if ya need it."

The boy looked at him and nodded, "Thanks."

He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket and looked at it. He turned to Spot and asked where Norton Street was located.

"Ya got a way's to walk. It ain't too far from the docks. Pass Pine Street and go fer another three er four blocks. Ain't hard to find."

The boy said thanks and picked up his suitcase. As he entered the hallway, he heard Rosie direct him to a room across the hall.

_"Alright, then, Mr. Crenshaw. How long will you be stayin'?"_

_"I'm not too sure. It's Peter. You can just call me Peter."_

_"Alright, well, money by Friday. Oh, just to warn ya…may get a little noisy in the evenin'…"_

Spot breathed a guilty laugh and left the washroom. When he got back to his room, he found Emma sitting upright in bed, the sheets covering her chest, and her blonde hair falling innocently across her bare shoulders. With a sinful smile gracing her lips, she shook her head and said teasingly, "You take too damn long."

Spot smirked as he crawled onto the bed. "Timing's nevah been my thing."


	33. These Crimes

**Part II, Chapter XV**

**April 13, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

When Eyes approached the lodging house for the second time later that day, he took in a big breath. There was a feeling a apprehension and uncertainty that had plagued him for most of the night. It seemed for the first time, Brooklyn stood slightly defeated, almost duped. How had that happened? He shook his head and walked towards the entrance. Inside the lobby, Clemens was counting what little money he had left. His arm held up his head and his fingers dug tiredly into his scalp. He looked at Eyes through the tops of his spectacles and said nothing. Eyes, at a loss for words, meekly walked past. As he climbed up the stairs, he could hear the boys arguing in the ransacked bunkroom.

_"Where were you?"_

_"Where was I? I was fuckin' tryin' to get those punks off my back, where was you?"_

_"Don't gimme that shit, you was the first one to run off back to Brooklyn!"_

_"Both 'a you shut up! I can't take hearin' you bitch any more!"_

_"It ain't anyone's fault 'cept Conlon, he wasn't even there!"_  
When Eyes appeared in the doorway, the younger newsies stopped arguing. They all turned to Eyes expectantly, and all he could do was stare back. He surveyed the bunkroom: more windows had been broken, much of the contents of the beds were either torn to pieces or were merely stripped and thrown askew, the nightstands were overturned and were spilling whatever was inside onto the floor. Eyes walked down the aisle way, the younger boys parting to the side to give him room, and he came upon the bathing area of the bunkroom. He stared angrily at the utility closet. Its door was wide open, as was the window directly next to it, and in his mind he saw Johnnyy scurrying out with the help of his Crown Heights brothers.

"Oh, shit…" came another voice. Eyes turned around to see Bolt timidly entering the bunkroom from the staircase.

"What the hell're you doin' heah, Bolt?" shouted one of the newsies.

"Get the hell outta heah!"

"Yeah, you'se ain't supposed to be anywhere near heah!"

One of boys, Dodge, promptly jumped onto an upright nightstand pointed his slingshot at Bolt, who looked up at the inferior boy with cold eyes and a clenched jaw. He said nothing. He knew he deserved this, that his crimes couldn't go unpunished, but he still felt like he shouldn't feel guilty. The boy's arm was steady as he held back the black marble between the rubber band and his index finger.

"Get that outta his face!" shouted Eyes defensively, stomping across the room towards the scene.

"No! I wanna show 'im he can't get away with that shit heah, he should know bettah!" screamed Dodge. "Thief! Criminal!"

"Eyes, c'mon, he betrayed us!" shouted another.

Bolt looked out the window behind him to avoid the newsies' angry gazes. Eyes didn't break stide on his way over to the scene, and stepped in front of Bolt to protect him from Dodge's slingshot.

"Put it away, Dodge," he ordered.

Dodge shook his head. His lips were pursed and his jaw was clenched in angry determination.

"Dodge! Put. It. Away."

Bolt turned his back shamefully and rested his arms on either side of the window. Eyes stared the boy down until, finally, he backed down and relieved the rubber band. He crossed his arms as he stepped down from the nightstand and said angrily, "Bolt, you'se still dead to me."

"Yeah, what the hell're ya thinkin', Bolt?" asked another boy.

"'Cause I ain't gonna leave Brooklyn behind me when somethin' like this happens. You can take my help er leave it, but I don' see Conlon anywhere 'round heah so who's gonna help take care 'a this mess?" replied Bolt sincerely.

"We was doin' just fine without you heah," said Dodge, who in fact resembled a young Spot Conlon with his arms across his chest and sneer taking over his face.

"Shut up, Dodge, we wasn't doin' nothin' but arguin'!" retaliated another.

Eyes looked back at Bolt, who had turned back around but still leaned against the window sill. He eyed him for help, for he wasn't sure what to say.

"I mean, I know I wasn't there, but where'd Conlon go after everyone left the house?" asked Bolt.

The boys looked around at each other for the answer. They shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders.

"_No one _knows?" said Eyes, filled with surprise, and he sighed, grabbing at the roots of his hair.

"D'ya think he was one 'a the guys they captured?" one boy suggested.

"Doubtful. They woulda made a biggah deal out of it when we was there. When we came back heah, he wasn't around, though. So I guess it's possible."

"I dunno, Eyes, d'ya really think Conlon got 'imself captured?" suggested Bolt.

Eyes shook his head. "No. But, shit, I can barely remembah…"

"What're we gonna do?" asked the smallest newsie at Eyes's side.

"Well, from what I can tell these Crown Heights boys ain't playin' by the rules. They got Johnny back fer a start, but they wanna get back at Conlon fer doin' it. I don' know how we're gonna handle this without Conlon heah. God, where the hell is he?"

* * *

**April 14, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

"It's so much better here," said Emma as she peered out the window. "And I don't even recognize this part of the city."

Spot bit his lip and sat at the other side of the window. He watched Emma's eyes as she scanned the streets and buildings. He watched her fingers dance across her lips as she chewed at her fingernail. He watched her feet tap against the chair legs. He smiled, and walked over to her. Lovingly, and almost protectively, he stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissing her temple.

"Don' leave the city," he said.

"I'm not." She rubbed his arm reassuringly.

He couldn't explain the rush he got when Emma rubbed his arm. He couldn't explain what was going on at all, actually. For the past twelve hours he had not been acting the way the leader of Brooklyn would act. He was entranced by Emma, and he was completely aware of the lovesick state of mind he was in. He had no intention of getting out of it. They hadn't even left the room since they went inside. He was in love, and all he needed was Emma. For Spot, everything was complete.

"So, I'm starvin', I say we go to Sonny's an' get some food…"

Suddenly, Spot snapped right out of it. He turned around and froze.

"Oh, I thought Bolt said…" Emma stood up and paused. She closed her eyes and the only word that came to the racing stillness of her mind was, _Shit._

Spot squeezed his eyes tightly as the real world came rushing back to him with a vengeance. Sonny's was closed because it got shut down, and Spot had kidnapped Johnny because he thought he had called the police, and Crown Heights had threatened him, and Bolt…

"I'm gonna be sick," he said suddenly and ran out of the bedroom.

Emma sat back down and buried her head in her hands.

…Bolt knew about Emma's return, and she knows about Johnny, and Spot kicked Bolt out of the lodging house because of her.

"Oh, God, this can't be good," murmured Emma.

Spot bent down over the toilet, sure as Hell that he was going to vomit. He couldn't get anything out. His stomach lurched and he coughed, hoping everything would come out, but nothing did. There was nothing in his stomach to throw up--he had been at the inn without any food. He shoved his fingers down deep into his throat one last time. Nothing. He leaned his back onto the stall and slid down.

The last thing he remembered before seeing Emma was the rock Crown Heights had thrown with the note attached to it, and the boys from the bunkroom were racing down the street to attack who had threatened them. What happened to his boys? Where were they now?

Just then, Peter Crenshaw entered the bathroom. He looked into the stall and looked down at Spot, whose face had gone white and his temples beaded with sweat.

"Was that you doin' all the drinkin' last night too, then? Couldn't really sleep because of it…" he trailed.

Spot shook his head and picked his exhausted body up from the ground.

"Hey, take your own advice and have some of that coffee from the diner 'round the corner. Helped me out, couldn't locate Norton Street, though…"

Spot, aware of his rudeness, began walking towards the door.

"Hey, actually, I have a question, I'm looking for someone, maybe you can help me. She's about my age, maybe five foot, four inches, blonde hair, her name's--"

Spot turned around and shook his head. "I can't right now--I can barely think."

He pushed open the door with force and walked down the hallway. When he opened the door to his room, he found Emma sitting on the chair by the window, bent over holding her head. She straightened up as Spot came inside the room, which seemed smaller than he recalled. It seemed like the walls were closer, that everything was suddenly bigger, and he and Emma were smaller than ever. Spot sighed and leaned against the door as soon as it was closed. Emma had changed quickly in appearance. Her face wasn't calm now; it was full of guilt, regret, and uncertainty. Her watery eyes looked down.

Spot looked at her but looked away. It was too real for him and he realized he couldn't have both Brooklyn and Emma under the current circumstances. He knew Brooklyn was in trouble, but he couldn't guarantee Emma would be safe from it. It was the only way he was able to control Brooklyn the way he had for three years--he only had enough space in his heart for one of them--Bolt was right. He felt like a criminal.

"What are we gonna do now?" asked Emma, breaking the silence.

Spot shook his head. "I don't know."

* * *

To Isabel: Thank you. I hope this works! 


	34. You Don' Got the Guts

**Part II, Chapter XVI**

**April 14, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York -- Crown Heights**

The line of boys stared directly ahead of them. There was only a candle burning in the center of the room on the floor, so all they could look at were flickering shadows bouncing across the walls. They could look out the window if they wanted -- but they would have had to squint through the small holes in the curtains to see anything at all. They couldn't look at each other. They were too embarrassed.

Twist felt his wrists become more and more raw every time he moved them. His hands had been bound behind his back with rope, and he could feel his skin starting to break. His ankles were bound in front of him, too. He glanced to his side to see the other four pairs of ankles bound together as well. Every time he looked at them he thought he could find something new, something different that would help him figure out a way to get them all out of this mess.

"Man, I gotta piss…" said Mick, who sat closest to the door.

"Don't even think about it," snapped Scratches, who sat next to him.

"Mick, I got's no problem with that," said Twist, who was at the opposite end of Mick. "Piss away, my friend."

"I'll cut yer dick right off if you'se thinkin' I'm gonna live with that smell," warned Seamus. "Cramped already in heah…"

"Things ain't gettin' any bettah, Seamus, he might as well," quelled Lucky, who sat in the middle of the five Brooklyn newsies who had been captured by Crown Heights and were being held hostage in a cramped room in an unknown building.

"A'right, I'm goin'," warned Mick.

Scratches groaned and let out a round of curses under his breath.

"Christ, they ain't even openin' the damn window," stated Scratches, burying his nose into his shoulder.

Seamus wrinkled his nose once the smell hit him and he started shaking his head and biting at his shirt collar to pull it up around his nostrils. "Goddamnit, Mick!"

"When ya gotta go, ya gotta go!"

"I can't stand this…" panted Seamus suddenly, his chest heaving in and out, and his body started thrashing around, hitting the wall his back was propped up against, and trying with all his might to break free from the ropes. "I can't fuckin' stand this! I gotta get outta heah!"

Twist sighed and closed his eyes, pretending he was elsewhere. A moment later, the door to the room swung open and banged against the wall with force. Jinx, the gutsy leader of Crown Heights, stormed in, and Seamus paid no heed to his entrance. He continued to thrash around with more vigor. Silently, Jinx marched over to the insubordinate newsie. He crouched down and placed his spread out hand atop Seamus's head. With his other hand, he took out his pistol, flipped it around, and struck the butt of it down onto Seamus's face. Twist winced and looked away. Seamus calmed his shaking and stopped, blood dripping down the side of his face.

"Not so tough, now, are ya Brooklyn?" said Jinx hatefully. He straightened up and as he spoke, pointed his pistol down the line as if a father were scolding his children. "That goes fer all 'a you'se guys! Second I heah someone makin' a whole lotta noise, I'm comin' back in heah and it ain't gonna be pretty!"

Scratches blatantly ignored Jinx's threat, hocked back forcefully, and hurled a loogie as high as he could. The spit landed inches from Jinx's face as he ducked out of the way. He pointed his gun directly at Scratches and cocked the trigger. Scratches stared right back with the same expression of malice etched all over his face.

"You don' got the guts, Crown Heights," he said in a low voice.

Jinx scoffed. "Don't I?" Without breaking his glare at Scratches, he threw his arm behind him and shot a bullet through the window, shattering it.

"I'm ovah heah, dumbass, yer pistol's pointin' in the wrong direction. But thanks fer crackin' the window there, my boy Mick here's been havin' some bladder problems."

Jinx merely shook his head, scoffing to himself. He placed his gun in his trouser band. "I didn't shoot ya 'cause I ain't done with ya."

"Good, I was just gettin' cozy." Scratches moved his hips around and relaxed his back onto the wall behind him.

With a hard, clenched jaw, Jinx marched out of the room and slammed the door on his way out. He turned directly to his right and walked into the room next door. Johnny, now a free boy, sat facing the wall, casually lounging in a cushioned chair with a beer bottle in his hand. The wall was the thin barrier between him and their hostages. There were five holes at the very bottom of the floor, all lined in a row, where the rope from the boys' bound wrists fed through. Tied to each rope was a rock that hit the wall whenever one of the boys started moving around quickly.

"Was he the only big problem we'se been havin'?" asked Jinx, motioning to the hole which indicated Seamus's position in line on the other side of the wall.

"Yes, sir. That one's been movin' around pretty much the whole time they'se beem there," Johnny pointed to Twist's rock, "so ya might wanna watch out fer him. Might be tryin' to escape."

"A'right, Johnny boy, good work." Jinx patted him on the shoulder proudly. He stepped out of the room and walked down the hallway. His walk was more of a strut--his shoulders were broad and square, and he had a smirking look on his face that resembled that of Spot Conlon himself. What Scratches said to him stuck to him: _You don' got the guts, Crown Heights_. He shook his head; how much he wanted to prove Scratches wrong. He approached his second-in-command, Bones, who promptly jumped up from his seat.

"We still got surveillance on Conlon, right?" asked Jinx.

"Sure do. He didn't go with his boys, he's stayed at the lodging house and left after that. They'se stayin' at an inn a few blocks ovah. We'se just waitin' fer them to make the right move, they'se waitin' fer the right time," responded Bones dutifully with pride.

"Good. Just as long as they bring 'im to me in person."

"There is one thing, Jinx. What're we gonna do with the girl?"

"It's a she?" said Jinx, surprised. "Well, I guess she's comin' along fer the ride too. I ain't leavin' this place until they come back."

Jinx strode down the hallway and descended the staircase. It was dusk, and when Jinx stepped outside to take a look at the sunset, he lit up a cigarette. He was steady from outward appearance and despite the calming sky at the horizon, he kept hearing the comment Scratches had made: _You don' got the guts, Crown Heights_. Jinx inhaled deeply on the cigarette. Nobody wanted to touch the Brooklyn newsies. Why? No guts. He stamped out his cigarette after he was done, digging his shoe into the ground hard, refusing to believe he didn't have the guts to take out Spot Conlon, because to Jinx, he absolutely did.

* * *

Quick chap., more of Spot and Emma are coming up, don't worry! I'll give you holiday presents (to be PC) if you review... 


	35. Panic

**Part II, Chapter XVII**

**April 15, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York**

In the early morning of the next day, before the sun had even risen, Spot lay wide awake. He stared above him at the ceiling, his eyebrows cinched, and he was in deep thought. He hadn't slept a wink that night, and he and Emma had hardly spoken, let alone make love. She slept soundly next to him facing the opposite direction. She hadn't moved from that spot since she had fallen asleep. With a sigh, Spot nestled his arms behind his head.

His eyes were tired and his eyelids tried giving in to sleep several times, but his mind wouldn't stay quiet. All he could think about was Brooklyn. And Emma. And how he had royally fucked up both. How had that managed to happen in just a matter of days?

Nevertheless, he knew what he had to do. Brooklyn didn't stand a chance of fighting Crown Heights without a leader. They may have had a better chance had he not shunned Bolt so quickly -- but now, his boys had no leadership at all. Yet there was Emma. What was he to do with her? Somewhere near the five a.m. he had to compromise.

Wearily he arose from the bed and pulled on his pants. The sun had started to come up, finally, and Spot began to feel the effects of no sleep. His head ached and his stomach lurched with hunger. He walked over to Emma's side of the bed and sat down. He didn't want to wake her because he didn't want to upset her. That was one reason why he had spoken barely a word to her -- he didn't want to see her upset anymore. He knew Emma's face all too well when it was sad and distraught, mostly because he had hurt her in the past. He couldn't bare the thought of her unhappiness again, so he refused to speak last night. He knew her all too well to know that was the same reason why she hadn't talked to him either.

Biting his tongue now, though, he nudged her gently awake. He rubbed her back gently as she rolled over, waking up, and his hand slid onto her stomach. He smiled guiltily.

"What's wrong?" she asked, almost alarmed.

He pressed his lips together before responding. "I have to go."

"Where, what's going on?" Emma sat up. Spot's hand moved to hold her hand -- he didn't want a moment to pass that he wasn't at least touching her.

"Em, I gotta go back to the lodging house, at least for today."

The sadness started working its way onto her weary face. _Don't cry_, thought Spot. _Fer the love 'a god, don't cry_. To combat this action, Spot quickly added on.

"Or at least fer the morning. I can't ignore Brooklyn. I don't want you leavin' the room though. I checked all the windows and locked 'em. When I leave, please, please, lock the door, and put a chair underneath the doorknob."

Emma sank down into her pillow. Spot could see not a look of sadness anymore, but now fear. Her shockingly green eyes were filled with uneasiness. It sent a shiver up his spine. Emma nodded nervously and exhaled a shaky breath.

"Alright. I'll just, I'll make myself busy. Doing something. I'll find something. I suppose," she answered, her voice trembling.

Spot looked at her deeply for a moment. He watched the emotions in her face become more and more intense, more and more real. She never had been one to mask emotion, and she certainly wasn't fooling anyone at the present time. Before Spot could break down and give up Brooklyn entirely for her, he let her go and walked towards the door.

"Spot."

Just as he reached for the doorknob, he turned around, and Emma jumped out of bed and rushed over. She threw her arms around him and kissed him fiercely. At first Spot's hands grabbed her hips, until a moment later he kissed her back with the same intensity and he wrapped his arms around her as tight as he possibly could.

"You have to come back," she said adamant.y. Her voice was breaking. "Okay? Please say you'll come back."

Spot pushed back the hair from her face quickly and pressed his forehead against hers. It was hard for him to speak. He closed his eyes. "I'll come back. I'm not leavin' you."

Emma nodded, tears pouring from her eyes. "Okay," she breathed, "I believe you."

She broke away, her fingers letting go of his as she backed away. Spot, before he was more inclined to stay, turned around and left the room. Emma sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face into her hands. She tried her best to calm her racing heart, to breathe, to believe _herself_ when she told Spot she believed him. But all that was going through her mind was whether or not she would see Spot again, and if she did, would she be able to be with him?

Suddenly everything became too much for her to handle and she felt nauseous. Panicky, she searched the room for a bucket or anything to throw up in. Finding nothing, she raced out of the room and into the washroom. She vomited into the toilet as soon as she fell into an empty stall, and felt her entire body collapse. Exhausted though she was, she laughed at the gross irony that she had reacted the same way Spot had the day before when faced with tremendous panic.

As Emma reached for the door to the washroom, Spot's cautions about not leaving the room suddenly caused her body to rake with nerves. She felt completely unsafe. Her hands went cold and wet as she grabbed the doorknob, and a strange sensation ran through her back, causing goose bumps to spring up all over her body. She rushed out of the washroom and stopped with her back against the hall of the corridor. It was still somewhat dark out, for there were no windows in the hallway. But out of the corner of her eye the front door of the lobby opened and light spilled inside.

"Mornin' Mr. Crenshaw. No luck this time, eh?" she heard Rosie ask the boy who had just come in.

"No, Rosie, no luck. I'm starting to really, really get worried. It's Peter, remember?"

Emma's body froze. She closed her eyes and didn't want to look because she didn't want to believe it. She pressed her back into the wall and cursed between her gritted teeth.

"I've tried going to the bakery, but they haven't seen her," she heard Peter continue.

"My god. That's just terrible, I'm so sorry Peter."

_No, you're _not _sorry, _thought Emma. _I can't feel guilty about one more thing. _As they continued their conversation, Emma stepped slowly to her side and dropped her face low. She could see her room, it was so close! Fear from her lack of safety and fear of being found by Peter Crenshaw made Emma shake all over. Her body went rigid and her forehead and neck beaded with cold perspiration. Her stomach turned over again but she willed herself to take the steps closer to her room.

"Okay, describe her to me again…" said Rosie.

"She's about this tall, with blonde hair down to here, and she isn't very big, she's quite slender. She's probably wearing green, she usually wears green, that's her eye color. Her name's Emma. Emma Corwell…"

Suddenly one of the boards creaked loudly. Emma shut her eyes.

Peter sighed as he talked with Rosie. Casually he looked down the hallway. He squinted to make out the figure glued to the wall. He looked a little deeper and walked towards it slowly.

"_Emma_? Emma!"

Emma didn't know why, but she looked directly at Peter. He started walking towards her quickly, and she raced into her room to avoid him. She slammed the door and locked it. She grabbed the chair in the room and shoved it directly under the doorknob. She backed up, staring at the door, and fell backwards onto the bed. Her chest heaved in and out quickly as her body tried to calm down.

"Emma -- that's a pretty name."

Yet her body froze once more at the sound of an unfamiliar, spine-tingling voice. She turned, and before she could see who it was, the boy was on top of her, wrestling with her. He cupped his hand around her mouth so tight that she felt his fingertips digging into her teeth. She closed her eyes and screamed despite it being muffled, but she screamed so hard that her throat went numb. She could hear Peter banging on the door from the outside, and she wished she hadn't locked the door. There was another boy in the room, and as the first one pinned her entire body down with all of his strength, the other one promptly jumped to the bed and tied her wrists together tightly.

* * *

As soon as Spot had left the inn he felt vulnerable. He felt completely raw. He didn't feel safe. Even as he had one hand gripping the slingshot in his waistband and the other hand gripped a marble, balled up in a fist, he felt entirely penetrable.

He walked hard and fast. His jaw was clenched so tight that he thought he would lose a few teeth. Among the racing thoughts in his head there was Emma and the burning question as to whether or not she was going to be safe. He felt comfort in the fact that he had given her explicit directions to stay in the room and lock the door. Emma was smart. She wouldn't do anything to put herself in harm's way.

Spot nodded to himself. If Emma had come all the way from Philadelphia by herself, what was one morning? Still, he felt queasy. He thought his body was able to stomach situations like this -- how else could he have risen to power? He was strong. But Emma had a place in him and it tugged at his heart. It weakened his ability to focus, to think clearly. He wasn't cold when he was with Emma, and now that it affected Brooklyn, he almost hated her for it.

The lodging house was near. All he had to do was round the upcoming corner. His pace quickened and he suddenly realized he had no idea what to say when he got there. _Hey boys, didja miss me? _He was screwed. He saw the lodging house now and his heartbeat jumped. He passed by an alleyway, when suddenly someone stepped out in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. He grabbed his slingshot, but just before he could place the marble in the rubber band, the boy lifted his arms and Spot felt a deafening, skull-shattering blow to the back of his head.

Lights out.

His royal highness, the infamous Spot Conlon -- his knees buckled and he fell to the ground at the feet of one of Jinx's henchman from Crown Heights.


	36. The Heart that Aches

RIDICULOUSLY LONG CHAPTER AHEAD. One might even call it epic. Consider it my gift to you for waiting so long to update. Enjoy...

* * *

**Part II, Chapter XVIII**

**April 15, 1902**

**Brooklyn, New York -- Crown Heights**

Somewhere between being attacked at the inn and ending up where she was, Emma had slipped into unconsciousness. She had no idea how long she had been out, but when she woke up, the room was dark with no window. There was only a tiny candle in the middle. She lay on the floor, her body seemingly broken, and slowly, with intense hesitation, lifted her eyelids.

The room was silent and the only thing she could see without moving her head was the wall a few feet away. She remained still for several, long moments, terrified of moving. She was even afraid of breathing too loudly, but the pressure of calming her body down from such panic made her tremble, and slowly, as if trying to escape an animal who had assumed her as its prey, she bent her legs so that she lay in a ball.

"Emma?"

She gasped at the sound of her name. It was hard to recognize at first, for the only voices she had ever committed to memory were those of her parents and Spot.

"Emma, it's me, Peter, I'm here."

Initially she relaxed at the comfort of the familiar, but she felt her body tense up again. She said nothing but she could hear Peter's rapid, uneasy breathing.

"Are you awake?" he asked.

Emma closed her eyes again and took deep breaths to ready herself. She picked her body up from the ground to a seated position and turned around. The flickering light of the candle showed Peter's face -- his eyes were worrisome and scared, and the expression inside them took over his features. He was sitting against the wall of the small, empty room. His wrists were bound together by cloth and the sight of them made Emma's wrists ache to her attention -- hers were bound together as well. Suddenly her jaw throbbed in pain and she tasted the bitter taste of her own blood in her mouth.

Emma stared at Peter, speechless, for a long time. She took in his presence, took in her surroundings, and searched her head for the right thing to say. It then hit her that Peter, more than likely, had no idea what was going on. He knew nothing of Spot or Brooklyn or this gang rivalry. It was why he looked so genuinely concerned; to him, she was the victim.

"Are you hurt?" Peter broke the silence finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Emma felt a flood of guilt wash over her because she looked deeply into his eyes. She hung her head low and shook it without a word.

Across the hallway, Johnny, the so-called runt of Crown Heights, was curled in the same chair he had been sitting in since he got there, with his feet slung over one end with his head buried into the velvet cushion on the other end. Asleep, his arm fell lazily from his lap and the beer bottle in his hand fell to the floor with a _CLINK! _against the other bottles on the floor.

Jinx opened the door swiftly and stopped to take a look at Johnny. He grunted angrily, marched towards the boy snoozing peacefully, and kicked the empty beer bottles across the room. They shattered against the wall into glittering brown pieces, and Johnny jumped up with a start. Jinx placed his fists on his hips with a chilling glare in his eyes. Johnny sat back down insubordinately.

"What the hell?!" shouted Jinx.

"It was just fer a minute -- I swears!"

Jinx scoffed and shook his head. "Goddamn, when I tell ya to do something' it means I want ya do it, not sleep it off!"

Johnny looked down. He wondered to himself sometimes whether or not being free from Brooklyn really meant that he was free. He was still kicked around Crown Heights -- he was even surprised they had come to rescue him at all. He hadn't been particularly special within the gang. But he had the suspicion that Jinx was using his kidnapping as a way to strike at Spot Conlon.

"I won't drink no more. I'll stay awake," answered Johnny, looking at the wall before him with the rocks situated where the wall and floor met. None of them were moving. He assumed the Brooklyn boys were asleep and he couldn't help but feel envious.

"Good. Clean that up," ordered Jinx, motioning emphatically towards the shards of bottles at the other end of the room. He left the room in a huff. Johnny stared at the broken bottles across the room and instead of following Jinx's small orders, he sat back down and pouted.

Bones entered the room a few minutes later. He switched his glare between the broken beer bottles against the wall and Johnny, who sat like a defiant child in the chair staring up at him.

"Did you do that?" he asked harshly.

"No, that was--"  
"Clean it up!" Bones interrupted.

As Johnny sulked over to the wall, Bones continued. "Just so's ya know, we got the goil Conlon's shacked up with and another guy at the inn in the room across the hall. Check on 'em after ya clean that up."

Once Bones left the room, Johnny dropped the glass he was picking up. It was his only act of stubborn rebellion against the leaders of Crown Heights. He failed to see their loyalty in the current situation. He got up and exited his room, curious to see who they had captured. He knew they had surveillance on whomever Spot was staying with at the inn, but he had yet to encounter the captives.

Johnny hadn't expected to react the way he did as he went to open the door, though. His hand paused when he reached for the doorknob and the image of being held within the confines of the utility closet at the Brooklyn lodging house flooded his mind. He felt a tiny pang of guilt but proceeded to open the door.

There were two of them -- one girl and one boy, both of whom looked to be the same age as Bones and Jinx. They both recoiled in the tiny room; the girl gasped and threw herself against the wall, covering her head with her arms. The boy was undoubtedly frightened, and at first he cowered, but after a moment he scooted himself in front of the girl. His arms spread out at his sides in the girl's defense, but his eyes gave him away entirely; Johnny could see in the light from the hallway just how terrified he was.

"Please…we've done nothing wrong, please, just let us go!" said the boy.

Johnny suddenly felt powerful looking down at the boy. He looked behind him into the hallway -- the leaders were not in sight. The boy's jaw began to quiver when he returned, but he looked behind him at the girl. She had crept her head out from behind her hands so that her nervous face came into the light. He knew at once who she was. He knew instantly as well that she had done nothing wrong to be treated like an animal this way.

"Johnny!"

The young boy shut the door behind him swiftly as he positioned himself outside in the hallway. Bones marched up to him and asked, "They'se still tied up?"

"Yeah. Two of 'em. Boy an' a goil."

Bones smiled maliciously, his yellow teeth adding to his overall repulsiveness. "Tha's right. Didja get a good look at the broad? Might have a go at 'er once we finish Conlon off…"

Johnny gulped, disgusted inside but keeping his outward emotions in check. "So that's the plan, then?"

Bones stared for a moment, hesitating. "Yeah. They'se bringin' in Conlon right now." He scoffed. "Couldn't 'a been easier if we tried. He was just walkin' on the street and _WAM_! Knocked 'im out! Musta been beautiful."

A few minutes later, there came loud whooping and hollering from the rest of the building.

_"We got 'im, boys! We actually got 'im!"_

_"Yeah, how's it feel, Brooklyn?!"_

_"Conlon's ours, boys!"_

Coming up the staircase were two grinning Crown Heights boys carrying Spot Conlon, unconscious and limp, from either end of his body. There was something shocking about what Johnny saw before him. Spot Conlon was supposed to be a vision of intimidation, the most respected newsie in all of New York, and here he was, broken.

A group of Crown Heights boys suddenly appeared in the upstairs hallway, where they carried Spot into Johnny's room, following the leader of Brooklyn with anxious, euphoric faces. Johnny backed out of the way so as not to be shoved. Jinx pushed his way through the crowd as Spot's unconscious body was propped up against the wall next to the broken pieces of bottles. The Brooklyn boy's head fell to his shoulder, which slouched with the other almost lifelessly. Crassly, the rivaling gang members took turns scowling and smacking at Spot's face.

"Look at 'im, the little bitch, he's all ours!"  
Johnny noticed the rocks of the Brooklyn hostages beating against the wall furiously.

Jinx crouched down in front of Spot, ready to speak to him. He gripped either end of his jaw harshly and said lowly, "I got you, you fuck." It was almost inaudible against the cheering noises and spitting insults the rest of the boys were making, but Johnny heard it. He watched from the back, entranced almost. Spot was still unconscious. He had no reaction to Jinx's words or actions. His face was lifeless and a trail of blood from behind his ears stained his neck.

"A'right, boys," said Jinx, turning around and straightening up. The boys stopped talking at once. "Think he's gonna be out fer a while, so back to yer stations, keep an extra eye out at the entrances. I don' want nobody bargin' in on us."

The group looked underwhelmed.

"_Then_ we'll have some fun with 'im," added Jinx in response to the group's faces.

They applauded and jeered together excitedly with a combined sense of arrogance. They shuffled out of the room, down the hallway and downstairs, returning to their stations to keep watch and hold down the building. Johnny remained in the doorway as they filed out. Jinx approached him and looked at him sternly. A bead of sweat trickled down his stiff jaw.

"I gotta go downstairs. If there's so much as a flinch comin' from that fucker ovah there, you call fer me. If somethin' suspicious goes down in that room ovah there, call fer me. If anythin' happens with the hostages, call fer me. D'ya got that? This a big job, but I don' got enough boys to stay up heah while we'se downstairs too, and Bones an' I gotta work out our game plan."

Johnny's mouth was dry and he rubbed his sweaty fingers together at his sides. He nodded, intimidated by the earnest look in Jinx's stone cold eyes.

"Good." The leader strode down the hallway and before he descended the staircase he shouted back behind him, "Clean up that mess 'a glass!"

Johnny let out a sustained, angry sigh and punched the wall. He looked back at Spot's pathetic form. He stared at it for almost a full minute. This was the boy who held him over the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge under suspicion that he had gotten Sonny's shut down and his boys sent to the refuge; he had been wrong, of course, in that accusation, and really, he could easily have picked up the largest piece of glass in that pile and get his revenge.

It would have been sweet revenge and the opportunity couldn't have presented itself more clearly. But Johnny felt nothing of that in him. He didn't want to kill Spot Conlon. He didn't want to save him either, really. Instead, he had a better plan formulating in his head.

He opened the door to the room in which their two other captives were being held. Again, the boy sat in defense of the girl. But the girl gently pushed the boy's hand aside and stood up. She stepped forward with recognition in her face.

"Johnny?"

He nodded. "Emma."

She nodded in return. Her face was still scared and her body was still very guarded and seemingly helpless. "I know you're not gonna hurt us but could you at least tell us where we are? Please?"

The boy stood up and stood at Emma's side, bewildered and anxious. "Hey -- you better let us go or else."

"Yer right, I ain't gonna hurt ya." Johnny shook his head, dismissing the boy's ignorant threat. He pulled out a small pocketknife. Emma instinctively jumped back an inch, and Peter shoved her roughly behind him.

"I mean it! D-Don't hurt us!"

Johnny almost laughed cynically. But he simply grabbed the cloth binding Peter's wrists together and began cutting through them. He exchanged puzzled looks between Emma and Johnny, who paid no attention. He grabbed Emma's arms as well and did the same.

Still trembling, Emma asked quietly, "What're you doing?"

"You didn't do nothin' wrong. I know what it's like to be held captive fer doin' nothin' wrong."

"I know you do," said Emma empathetically.

Peter shook his head in confusion. "Wait, you two know each other?"

Both nodded. Peter threw up his arms. "Well then what the hell is going on?!"

Emma placed her hand on Peter's arm to quell him. Straightening herself out and facing him, she inhaled a breath of preparation and said with hesitation in her voice, "The reason I came here…to Brooklyn…was to see someone. We'd been friends since…I don't even know how long and I never said goodbye to him. His name's Spot."

Peter shook his head once more, furrowing his eyes. "Just what kind of friend was he?"

Emma looked down and mocked a shrug, unable to answer his question completely. "He's a huge part of my past. I couldn't take a step forward without at least seeing him."

Johnny crept out of the room. There were none of his fellow gang members in sight. Nor did he say anyone when he looked out the window.

"I don't understand, how do you know this kid?" Peter motioned to Johnny.

"I met him in the process of getting to Spot. See, it's a bit messy, the way he lives…they're both in these rivaling gangs -- "  
"What?" responded Peter incredulously. "Gangs, Emma?"

Emma popped her hip out and placed a fist on it defensively. "Hey! You're not exactly perfect either, Peter!"

"Yeah but at least I live a civilized life and not on the streets! At least I don't get innocent people caught in the crossfire!"

Emma shook her head and paced in a small circle, holding back the urge to lash out. Johnny entered the room again.

"Emma, Spot's in the other room…D'ya wanna see him? It'd have to be quick and real quiet."

She stared nervously at Johnny for a moment but nodded. He ran out of the room and opened the door in which Spot was being kept. Hurriedly, he motioned for her to come in.

Emma had been able to hold back tears since she was captured until now -- she stared across the room at Spot's still, slouched body, all the life and vigor she had known him to possess gone. Before she could move forward she cupped her hand around her mouth and squinted her eyes shut tight through hot tears. It overtook her completely: the separate bloody cloths still wrapped tightly around her wrists, the collision of two worlds in which she never thought Peter and Spot would coexist, and the fact that she had felt somewhat at fault for having done so. Bolt had been right all along -- it wasn't safe for the two of them to be together. Had she not been so stubborn, had Spot not been so stubborn either…

She let in a sharp breath and felt her heart beating against her chest and heard its pulse in her ears, and it hurt. Her heart ached painfully. She willed herself to look at Spot. Johnny remained in the doorframe keeping an eye on the hallway.

Emma proceeded forward, forcing herself to stop crying. She straightened up and bent down so that she was at Spot's level. She took one of his hands in hers; it was warm. She felt the absence of coldness in his hand and it surprised her, but she knew that coldness in Spot's being had vanished. It was irrevocable. He had been changed. It overwhelmed her when she felt the realization and she became more aware of the pain she felt in her chest. She placed his hand over her heart, and she placed hers over his. She felt the steadiness, the calm, serene rhythm and closed her eyes.

Stepping out from the other room, out of the dark and into the light of the hallway, Peter proceeded slowly into the doorway. He watched Emma as she remained as still as Spot, the two of them together. He felt the pain the more he looked at Emma, who he truly loved, and also felt the sting of rejection.

"Emma, there's no way you can put yourself through this," said Peter.

Emma's eyes opened as she came back to reality and she was surprised at the directness that was so uncharacteristically Peter. She turned her head slowly to look at him and said, "What do you want me to do then, Peter?"

"Don't do this to yourself, it's not right. You'll be dead within a year if you stay with him."

She shook her head and turned back to Spot. She suddenly felt his heart pick up speed. He rolled his head from his shoulder and his whole body moved slightly. Emma's heart picked up as well at the sight of him moving and she grew anxious for him to wake up.

When Spot came to, he first felt his entire body in pain. His brain felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his skull with a hammer. He felt exhausted and his back felt cramped where his shoulders had fallen lazily to their haunches. But he felt warmth in his chest. By the time he became conscious again, he slowly opened his eyes. Emma sat before him, her green eyes alight but they looked scared, and they didn't match the grateful smile she had on her face. She brought her hands up to his face and held either side of it. He didn't know where he was, he could hardly speak, but for some reason, seeing Emma after having been knocked out for God only knows how long, he felt guilty. Among the exhaustion and pain of his body and despite the warmth he felt when he saw Emma, his heart ached. He instinctively knew she shouldn't be where he was.

He shook his head slightly. "Emma, you can't be here."

She recoiled and her smile disappeared. "No, I _am _here. I'm here."

"No, you shouldn't be."

Emma dropped her hands. "Spot…I wouldn't have come here had I not been forced to…"

Spot winced as the pain in his head throbbed. He reached back and felt the warm blood underneath his hair. The sight of his bright red fingers, and then the sight of each of Emma's wrists which had been tied together, made him woozy. He avoided looking her in the face and noticed Johnny in the background and Peter standing behind her.

"That's it, Emma. I can't do this to you," he said deliberately.

Emma shook her head, her face screwed up int angry confusion. "You didn't do this to me, Spot! I'll be damned if you leave me after I left you! What was it you told me just a couple of nights ago? That you'd never leave me and I'd promise to never leave you! I'm not going anywhere!"

Spot slowly stood, Emma doing the same, so that they looked each other in the eye. He felt invigorated again, fighting with her. He grabbed her wrists and held them up to her face.

"D'you want this, Em? D'you want the way I live put you in this kinda situation? No! I can't do this to you and I won't. I love you but I can't!" He dropped her arms and stalked towards the doorway. He hardly recognized Johnny for he hardly cared to notice his face.

"You -- we're in Crown Heights, aren't we?" he asked, pointing to him, but his eyes darting all over the place.

"Jesus…I'm savin' yer goil's life, the least ya could do is talk to me like a man," answered Johnny.

Spot snapped back to him. "Johnny…you…" He exchanged puzzled looks between him and Emma. "Why exactly're you helping me?"

Johnny sighed. "It's complicated. But all 'a Crown Heights is down there. Bettah get a move on with her b'fore I let 'em all know you'se awake."

"Where am I gonna go, Spot?" asked Emma. Her tone was biting, dripping with angry sarcasm. "Tell me, where--am I--gonna go?"

Spot stared hard at her. They locked eyes and for a moment he almost gave in. He flicked his gaze towards Peter, who was looking at him with increasing bewilderment at it all.

"You'se was at the inn…lookin' fer a girl," started Spot, pointing at Peter. "It was her, wasn't it?"

Peter looked at Emma, who remained staring at Spot and breathed heavily with a clenched jaw, and looked back at Spot. "Yes. We're to be married."

Spot felt his stomach drop to the floor but he kept his composure. His eyes jumped back to Emma. At the mention of her marriage her face broke down. She couldn't look at Spot and turned her face away, and it was all Spot could do to keep from running to comfort her and reassure her that she wouldn't have to be with Peter, that she could be with him.

Instead, he ran over and gripped her arms tightly, positioning her in front of him. Her eyes sparkled a harsh, fervent, teary green as he looked deeply into them. He suddenly felt a lump form in his throat as he searched for the right words, but how do you tell someone you have to leave them when the very thought of it breaks your heart? He knew that's exactly what it would do to her -- he was going to have to hurt her yet again and the sight and mere thought of Emma being miserable once more because of him made him wish he had never met her at all.

He spoke in low, passionate tone through his own inner anger. "You know that if I had my way…" he felt his voice starting to break and he gathered himself quickly. "…this ain't how I wanted everythin' to turn out. You know I wanna be with you, to spend the rest 'a my life with you, to love you till the day I die. You know that…"

"Spot, don't you dare--"

"No, dammnit, listen to what I'm sayin'. I can't have you an' keep you safe, Em. Look how bad yer life's screwed up 'cause 'a me. I can't walk away from Brooklyn--"

"So you can walk away from me?!" Emma broke from his embrace angrily and stepped backward. "Ask me who was there before you were leader! Ask me!"

"Emma, you know--"

"No! You don't know what my life was like without you! How dare you think you can come in and break me like that again! Don't you dare!"  
"You was the one comin' back into my life, don't blame me fer that! I know it took guts to do what you had to do an' I nevah asked you to do it! I can't help the way my life is, Emma! I can't help what kinda past I got! You think this is easy for me? To let you go? To _make_ you leave me so I don't get you killed? You got the option 'a walkin' away. You have the choice 'a bein' with someone who can give you a good life, a home, and safety. I ain't lettin' you walk away from that! I love you too much…" Spot's voice suddenly, audibly, broke. "…To see you not get exactly what you deserve."

Spot was out of breath. He bit down hard on his lip to keep it from quivering. Emma stared, trembling, her face drenched in tears. There was a sudden commotion downstairs and boys rustling all over the place. A gunshot rang out from the street but Emma and Spot were unmoved. There were heavy, thudding footsteps coming from the fire escape, and within an instant, Bolt appeared at the window. Out of his trance, Spot shoved open the window and Bolt crawled inside.

There were loud shouts and the leaders would be up in no time. Johnny stationed himself in front of the door. "Go now! Get 'er out now!"

They could hear windows breaking from the rest of the house, as more Brooklyn boys began intruding and breaking into the Crown Heights building. Peter ran towards the window and grabbed Emma by the arm, dragging her along with him. She resisted, but Peter wrapped his arm around her waist and overpowered her. Spot watched, helplessly against his own will, as she fought to stay with him. He looked at Bolt to distract himself.

"Sure you're safe when you get out there?" he asked after swallowing the lump down in his throat.

"Completely. We'se got the whole lodgin' house out surroundin' the place and Crown Heights ain't shit when it's all of us."

"Gotta be now, Spot, er else I'm givin' you up to save myself!" shouted Johnny who had slammed the door shut.

Spot turned to looked at Emma once more. She vanished from her sight as they descended the staircase. He fought his instincts and crawled out and landed on the iron gate in one quick motion. He chased Peter and Emma down the stairs. Emma fought past Peter and jumped into Spot's arms.

"Please, come find me!" she pleaded as the sound of gunshots and the fighting between the two rivaling gangs intensified. "Come find me and be with me!"

Spot pressed his lips hard against hers in a final, passionate kiss but he couldn't agree to her terms. "I love you, Em. Always have, always will. I'm so sorry I have to do this…"

"Conlon, get out 'er out _now_!" shouted Bolt from the window.

"Goddamnit! Go, Peter, don' let her go!" Spot broke from her arms and turned his back.

A split second before he went back inside, he watched Emma leave his life for good, forever, and he felt the key necklace nestle a place next to his chest. It burned, filled his heart with a warm, fiery sensation, so much that it ached, the way he had felt when she put her hand on his chest and he awoke from unconsciousness. It was the feeling that forbid him from being okay with what he had to do. He knew he would never be okay knowing he had given up the best thing he had ever had in his life.

But it was love -- great love requires sacrifice, it requires people who must look beyond the wants of his or her own in order to save the other. It was because he loved her so much he had to let her go, no matter how much his heart ached, how much his mind and body yearned for the touch and comfort from the only person he would give his heart to. It was great love, but Spot Conlon had to say goodbye.

END PART II


	37. The Resolution

**Part III**

**Brooklyn, New York**

If you had asked Spot how he defeated Jinx, how he and his Brooklyn newsies got out of the ambush of Crown Heights, he would not be able to tell you. Bolt would tell you, though. He would tell you right off the bat that they preferred not to talk about it because it began with the capture of five Brooklyn boys and the absence of their leader for three days. But he would tell you they simply got lucky and that they got all of their information through the grapevine of street rats and other allied gangs as to where Crown Heights was operating. It was luck that they arrived at the time they did, when Jinx was caught off-guard.

But for the most part, yes, for the most part, Bolt preferred to focus on the fact that they won. None of the boys thought it a triumphant victory in the least.

Spot could hardly tell you any details. His memory of that night was split into two parts marked off by a single event: the first part was everything that lead up to the point at which he drove Emma away for good. The second part was blocked out. He had blindly fought the Crown Heights boys. He didn't see the point in committing it to his memory.

He did, however, remember one person in particular during the second part of that night: Johnny. As soon as he entered the building again from the fire escape, there was a split-second vision of him holding the door with all his might when the Crown Heights boys were trying to break in to keep Brooklyn from rescuing their leader. Jinx had slammed open the door and immediately pointed his pistol at Bolt, who drew both of his in defense. Jinx took a look at Johnny who stood defenselessly by himself and then noticed the empty room in which Emma and Peter had been kept. When he put two and two together, he pulled the trigger and Johnny backed into the wall after the impact of the bullet hit his stomach. Spot had run to Johnny to catch him from hitting the floor and missed Jinx's bullet by a hair. Yet Jinx lasted not a moment longer after Bolt fired off three bullets into him.

Spot would tell you nothing after that because nothing else really mattered. Bolt would let you know they won that day in Crown Heights and freed the five boys they had originally lost to Jinx. That was where the story of that day ended.

After that, everything in Brooklyn went back to normal. The next day they got up at dawn and went to sell the papers. To pass the time between the afternoon and evening editions, the newsies went to the docks to play cards, swim in the river, and actively get past what had happened. And it wasn't as though it was something itching to get out, like an elephant in the room that someone need to acknowledge. It was simply something to get over. It was resolved.

Spot spent most of his time after that day sitting on his perch of crate boxes at the docks. He was far enough away to hear himself think but close enough to watch over Brooklyn. He didn't walk around with a chip on his shoulder or a scowl in his face. He was quite complacent, actually. When he wasn't keeping to himself, he was talking with the boys and living a normal life again. He still sold his papers at the corner of Pine and 4th Street.

It would be inaccurate to say he was happy, but it would be inaccurate to say he was sad. That isn't to say the experience of losing Emma again wasn't horrible. It was. It was the worst pain you could ever imagine having to open the same wound without healing it. It was resolved, and Spot decided to be a man about it. Any time he felt those intense feelings he reminded himself he had done the right thing. _He had done the right thing_. He had to repeat it to himself -- that was Spot at his most human. He would grab his hair tightly at the roots or put his hand over his eyes or toy with his key necklace when those feelings plagued him. It was never easy for him to deal with and it never would be.

Even so, it was impossible for Emma to have completely left him. Those type of people in your life never really do, even if they haven't been near you, even if they haven't talked to you in ages; those people hold a place next to your heart. Spot would tell you it's the worst feeling in the world and the best all at the same time.

Time often got the better of him, though, and there were days that he were especially horrible. It would hit him how long she had been away from him and it would hurt. He didn't have his better half. It was painful as hell, but he made himself get through it. He was okay, only because he forced himself to be.

* * *

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

What Emma would tell you after the experience in Brooklyn is somewhat contradictory. She would tell you that everything she did was completely wrong but that it was justifiable at the same time. She wrestled with her emotions and how she felt about it afterward. She would tell you she would have laid her life down for Spot -- if that situation so occurred -- but would say his decision to save her made no sense whatsoever.

She would tell you her feelings about Peter varied. She hadn't wanted to be with him, and it was his marriage proposal that sent her running away to Brooklyn in the first place. But there had been a moment between the two of them as they made their way back to Philadelphia.

Bleary-eyed and still wearing the same dress she came to Brooklyn in, Emma followed Peter, her head down, to the two seats he bought for the train ride home. He hadn't hugged her, offered her comfort, nor said a word of support since she stopped fighting him off away from Crown Heights. (He literally carried her away amidst her kicking and screaming back to the inn for the night, where he slept on the floor and she slept for twelve hours in the comfort of his bed). Silently she leaned her head against the window watching the train tracks. Occasionally she eyed Peter, but he was doing the same thing, and she didn't worry about awkward eye contact.

It was when they had left the state of New York that Emma became emotional again. She felt herself choke up and she buried her face in her hands, her head in her lap. After a few brief moments, she became aware of Peter's presence, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, excusing employees aboard the train and any other nosy passenger who audibly commented on the sight.

"You need to pay no attention to us, ma'm," he had said quite firmly to one appalled woman across the aisle.

The woman scoffed and turned up her nose. "What a childish and rude thing to do in public!"

Peter then stood upright and walked across the aisle. He placed one hand on the woman's cabin door and said lowly, "Until _you're_ perfect," and slammed the door loudly.

Emma looked up upon his return. He avoided eye contact with her and stared out the window, his face neither angry nor annoyed. She felt a feeling of fondness pass through her. It was by no means love, but it was respect. She wiped her face clean and got up, taking a seat next to him. Though she looked in front of her, he stared at her profile. Closing her eyes slowly, she breathed.

After the train ride, and for a great deal of time later, that's precisely would Peter did: he allowed her to breathe. Without speaking a word about it, he gave Emma what she wanted from him: space, respect. He was in love with her. Despite rational thought and his male dignity, he adored the girl. A while later as he often times pondered that day in Crown Heights, he liked the think he would have done the same thing Spot had done had he ever been in that situation.

On a certain level, though he seldom reached that level, Peter knew he would never be what Spot was to Emma. And it wasn't a matter of Emma loving him the way she did Spot; no matter how much she would let Peter in and respect him or love him for the way he was, there was only room for one person to have her heart. Yes, on that level, Peter knew.

It took longer for Emma to heal than Spot. Perhaps because she hadn't gotten exactly what she wanted, and Spot, in a way, did. She knew he wanted her to leave for her own sake, but deep down she knew it wasn't what he truly wanted. All she had to do was think of they way they were at the inn when she first saw him again. Replaying those memories made everything harder for her to understand and she felt the sting of rejection worse than she had before. She kept telling herself she would be okay. In time, she would be okay. _She'll be okay_. When she repeated this mantra, she closed her eyes and breathed.

Emma had appreciated Peter's presence more than she thought she would. She never did reach the point at which she truly, madly, deeply wanted to be with him for every second she was alive. But it helped that he was there. (Though his mother was as impossible as ever). Without knowing it, he distracted her from any pain she felt, and it took a while for her to take Spot down from the pedestal she had placed him upon.

They didn't talk about Spot but it was always lingering in the air when they were alone together. And whenever Peter went to express his loving emotions to her, he would look into her eyes, but she would look away. It was important to note that as time wore on, she looked Peter in the eyes whenever such a moment arose, but each knew they would never connect. There wasn't any fire in her eyes when she looked at him. It was why after four years, they had yet to marry.

Nevertheless, Peter Crenshaw, no matter how much he loved her, never walked away, even when he know all along he was doomed to be second best.

Emma never completely moved on and she never really would. You don't just let someone like that go. Too much of Spot was inside her, the way she was inside Spot too. There were times when Peter was asleep that she came close to leaving again. She would pack her suitcase when he was at work and wait until he was fast asleep, but whenever she opened the window she saw Spot's face that night, and it stopped her in her tracks.

Instead she resorted to the place in her heart Spot had claimed years ago. It never failed -- it gave her comfort every time and she felt stronger.

Spot and Emma had always been two of the most stubborn people you could possibly meet. It was a wonder how they each made it work for as long as they had. They fought too much, pushed themselves too far, and hurt each other in several tiny ways. Still, they always came back to each other. Always. Time and time again, no matter how much they hurt each other, they came back and it was if they'd never been apart. _Always… _


	38. Chapter One

**Part III, Chapter I**

**April 10, 1906**

**Brooklyn, New York**

The sky was unusually blue. Perhaps "unusual" isn't the best word. Shockingly blue. Yes, the sky was shockingly blue in the afternoon and the sun was brighter than ever. Its rays shimmered off the windows of Benham's Market and Flynn's baking shop. When the man took out his pocket watch to check the time, it almost blinded him. He cupped a hand over it and read clearly, four o'clock.

The man sighed and wiped his hands on his suit pants. He wouldn't tell you he was nervous even if he was; that just wasn't him.

_"Union strikes afta foul play suspected!"_

The man's eyes darted to his left to the small newsboy at the corner. Moments after belting out the leading headline a group of interested readers crowded him and the newsboy's stack of papers dwindled. The man smirked to himself and made his way over. The newsboy, from where he stood, looked so young.

"Aftanoon, mistah, that'll be a penny."

Digging in his pocket, a rustle of change was heard, and he handed the boy a dime. "Keep the change."

The boy's eyes widened but he quickly composed his expression to professionalism. "Thanks, mistah."

"You've got yourself a pretty good spot, there, don't'cha?" asked the man, folding his newspaper and placing it underneath his arm. He looked up at the street corner, knowing it would have two small signs: Pine and 4th St. He looked down at the boy with a slight smile on his face.

"Yes, sir. Best spot in the world."

The man nodded. "Damn right it is. Good luck sellin' today." He walked back across the street and sat down at the nearest bench. He opened his newspaper, trying to fool the passersby. He really didn't need to read the newspapers -- he worked for them now. But really, was there ever a time he didn't work for the newspapers?

He let one of the corners fold down at the time. Perfect, he thought. He kept his eye on the corner of Pine and 4th. After a while he folded his paper back up and dug for his watch. Four twelve. He felt his stomach rake with nerves. He'd always been used to that feeling but today it scared the hell out of him.

With an envelope in her hand, the woman turned the corner and made her way down 4th St. She could feel her heart beating too fast for her to keep up with, so for comfort, she fumbled her sweating hands to open the envelope that she had opened so many times, to read the letter she had read too much. The paper was weathered and had been folded in all different directions, and she could almost recite it word for word:

_Emma,_

_First, I love you. Always have, always will._

_Second, it's time I need to see you again. I thought I could handle it and for the past four years I tried my best to do just that but I can't any longer. I don't know if you ever married that guy or not, if you had babies with him, or if you're even living at this address (I had one of the newsies who works for us try and find your place -- I should probably tell you I work for the _Eagle_. I ain't a newsie anymore but they got me working business for the paper. I actually got a real life after sellin' papers, who'd 'a thought?) but I'm not gonna keep this up anymore. My life needs you in it._

_The truth is, I think about that day in Crown Heights all the time and kick myself for it. I know you felt like it was the worst decision I ever could've made and in a way, it's true. I've hated that choice since the second I made it but I'm glad it got you out of harm's way. I always knew I'd see you again, I think that's what made it easier to let you go -- but it wasn't easy at all, trust me, to live with that decision._

_So if this letter finds you feeling the same way, and let's be honest, I think it just might, please come see me. April tenth -- I saved the date. You're also probably wondering about the key I put in the envelope too. It ain't yours, the one you gave me when we were thirteen. I still wear that one. This is the key to my apartment in Brooklyn. If you reject the offer, I kinda need it back. But at least it'll let me see you again._

_Four o'clock. You know where._

_Spot._

_P.S. Please don't bring Peter._

Emma breathed. She couldn't help the smile she had on her face or the butterflies she felt in her stomach. Before walking down the street, though, she replayed the day she first opened the letter in her mind. She had come home, still living with her parents, yet still neighboring the Crenshaw's, and her mother gave her the envelope. Helen Corwell had read the blank return address, "Brooklyn, New York," and with a knowing expression on her face, handed it to her.

Peter had been in the apartment at the time, so had Mrs. Crenshaw, and they were getting ready to serve dinner. Almost every day after having coming home from Brooklyn four years ago, the Corwell's and the Crenshaw's ate together. It was also every single day that Emma grew more and more hateful toward Mrs. Crenshaw after the marriage comments she made to her, Peter, or often times both. Mrs. Corwell hated the old bat -- she wasn't exactly happy that Emma hadn't married Peter or anyone for that matter, but she would never live with herself knowing she'd married her daughter off unhappily. Peter shrugged off the comments and was merely happy enough to have Emma around all the time, even if they didn't live together.

Emma had opened it at the table and was stunned. She read through the lines quickly and took out the key. With one hand shakily clutching the letter and the other holding the bronze trinket, she exchanged shocked glances between the two.

"What's that?" asked Mrs. Crenshaw nosily.

Peter was the first to look over at Emma's unmoving form. Mrs. Corwell looked next, remembering the significance of the key and the return address of Brooklyn; she smiled.

"Emma?" prodded Peter.

She came back down to reality and talked to Peter alone. As he read the letter, sitting on her bed, and Emma leaning against the closed door of her bedroom, he looked defeated, but not surprised. He had known this day would be coming sooner or later.

"I can't keep you forever," he had told her, handing her the letter.

Emma looked down. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Don't say you're sorry. I'd prefer not to have pity," he had said calmly. "You're supposed to be with him. I'm not going to keep this up anymore because I thought I would someday be the person you wanted to be with. That's obviously not the case."

"Peter…"

"Just do me a favor and leave when I'm gone. I'd never leave you, but you left me as soon as you ran away to Brooklyn in the first place." He got up steadily, accepting his defeat, and kissed her on the forehead. Just before opening the door and leaving, he said, "If you ever need anything…"

Emma nodded. "I know."

Now, after having replayed it in her mind, she felt more at ease. The block seemed longer than she remembered, and it was a busy day in Brooklyn. She couldn't see the street corner where she had known instinctively to meet Spot. She thought he may have mean the docks or the bakery, but she shook her head -- there was only one place he had been talking about. But as soon as she was halfway towards Pine and 4th, and the crowds cleared, she saw it. There was a boy there, selling papers, and it was almost too unrealistic.

Though she had yet to reach the corner, she saw across the street a man in a dark gray suit sitting alone on a park bench. He sat upright, alert, and every so often he checked the time on his pocket watch. The smile on her face grew, especially when, just before reaching the corner, the man looked up and saw her.

Spot was on his feet in an instant. Emma dropped the jacket and suitcase she had in her arms and ran. Without running into anyone on the street, as if the clearing of the crowds was meant to be, they rushed towards each other, the gap between them shrinking, as if the years apart were disappearing. As soon as they met, Emma jumped into his arms in a tight embrace that took her back to being eight, thirteen, and seventeen years old again. As she felt the tears well up in her eyes and him wrap around her tighter, spinning her around in a small circle, she knew at once time played no factor in her love for him. His body was warm and strong, and she felt herself melt all over again the way she had when she first realized she had irrevocably fallen in love with him so many years ago.

Spot bit down on his lip -- it quivered once. The feeling of her in his arms was what he had lived without for four years, and he knew he wouldn't have to last a day without it anymore. He set her down and held her face in his hands, taking in the delicate features that had aged her into an even more beautiful young woman than he had imagined. She wrapped her arms around him, too afraid to let go at first, as if they would never have this moment again. Her eyes were still sparkling green and they weakened him so much that he practically collapsed. He pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, kissing her lips softly.

"I swear I just saw you yesterday it feels like," said Emma, breathing an exasperated laugh.

"Feels like I saw you an hour ago, more like it," replied Spot.

Emma shook her head slightly and pulled away to look him up and down. He had grown in height, his features achingly handsome and distinguished. His face had changed but it was the same to her. And his eyes, his sapphire blue eyes, her arguably favorite part of him, had not changed a single bit. For a moment she thought he was a mirage. "This isn't real, I can't even believe this is you, Spot."

"Patrick these days," he laughed.

Emma shook her head. "No. Spot."

"Alright, then. No one's called me Spot for the last three and half years, but to you, I'm Spot."

"Yes. That's the way it'll be from now on." She embraced him once more, leaning her head tightly against his chest as he twirled a strand of her blonde hair around his finger. It had been too long since he felt the soft strands at his fingertips.

"Got my key?" asked Spot after a few moments.

She broke away and took hold of his hand, leading him as she walked towards the corner of Pine and 4th where she had set down her jacket and suitcase. She dug around the pockets of her jacket, and pulled out the envelope carrying her letter. Spot smiled lightly as he watched and appreciated every movement she made.

Emma finally pulled it out and held it in front of her face. Spot made to take it from her but she pulled away, saying, "Don't you think I'll need it too?"

"You're staying," thought Spot aloud. He felt his stomach rush with nerves.

She nodded, closing her eyes briefly. "I'm staying. How could I not?"

"You love me too much. I'm quite a catch, I'd have to agree…" joked Spot arrogantly with a smirk on his face. Emma felt her knees weaken a little, and she was thankful he couldn't see them through her dress. She shook her head a second later and smacked his chest teasingly.

"Hey! You obviously still feel like you need to keep me in check…"

"Well, yeah, some things never change."

Emma picked up her suitcase, threw her jacket over her arm, and linked the other with his. She leaned her head against his arm lovingly, not caring if it was entirely appropriate or not to do so in public. Spot proudly held onto her tight, finally feeling utterly complete. For so long he had thought Brooklyn was his purpose in life, but at that moment he knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. He smiled to himself and kissed her forehead.

They walked down the block aimlessly for the rest of that day. If you were to see them on the street from afar, you'd swear they thought they were the only people in the world that mattered. It didn't matter where they were going or how long they had been walking -- time finally slowed down for Spot and Emma. It forgave the distance that kept them apart, and it forgave anything that had gotten in their way: heartache, anger, resentment, loneliness. After sixteen years, they were finally able to be together for the rest of their lives.

And it's quite true that great love requires sacrifice. It does. But it also keeps the heart yearning for the love that had been sacrificed in the first place, until time has healed those wounds. It keeps it from beating for anyone else but who you're meant to be with. It's one thing to love someone, to say, "I love you." Yes, the trials of that kind of love are painful and powerful, weakening the soul and changing your life. That kind of love ends and in time, the heart learns to beat on its own.

But great love -- that withstands the test of time, and for Spot and Emma, their love had been nothing less than great love.

**_END TO HAVE AND TO HOLD_**

* * *

**Come, come now...you didn't think I'd leave you hanging, did you?? I thought the end of that last chapter would be a dead give away to this one, the true ending of the story. Alas, I was wrong. Hope you enjoyed it -- this is my baby. Many thanks to all my loyal readers and reviewers!! Review a lot, I'd like to break 200...**


End file.
